


31 Days of Porn

by Violetwylde



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 31 days of porn, Alpha John, Biting, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Established Relationship, Facials, First Time, Gratuitous Bulges, Hand Jobs, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Masturbation, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Omegaverse, Pet Play, Power Bottom, Prostate Massage, Public Sex, Rimming, Sounding, Unilock, switchlock, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10811949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: I suppose it was inevitable. Here are my submission for this glorious list of smutty goodness. Unbeta'd, unbritpicked. Lord help me. Enjoy!





	1. Pretending

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick) in the [31_Days_of_Porn_Challenge_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/31_Days_of_Porn_Challenge_2017) collection. 



“You almost got it,” John says. His voice is low in the oppressive hush of the library. “Do you see where you went wrong?”

Sherlock squints down at the reaction mechanism he's written out, presses his lips together in a show of concentration. Of course he knows where he went wrong. Just like he knew the error he’d fabricated in last week's S1 reaction and the nomenclature mistakes he’d made the week before. But it would make for a rather boring tutoring session if he got everything right all the time.

He looks back up, gaze immediately arrested by John’s indigo eyes—bright and encouraging. Sherlock could drown in those eyes. He did once, the very first time he'd looked into them.

They’d been in the library foyer, standing in front of the bulletin board, each pinning up a flyer. Normally, Sherlock couldn't be arsed, but Irene had insisted, _‘you spend all your damn time in the library anyway you twit, put up a Goddamn poster’._ So Sherlock had put up the Goddamn poster.

“LGBT mixer next month?”

Sherlock had turned to the man, a terse _‘obviously’_ on the tip of his tongue, and fallen into two deep blue pools.

Gorgeous eyes, irises laced with slate and flecked with cobalt. Mile-long lashes that shone golden in the light pouring in from the glass double-doors. In his periphery, Sherlock had noted hair the color of clover honey, skin glowing with a healthy tan, and thin lips curled into a friendly smile.

“Haven't been to one of those since last year. Think it'll be any good?”

Having lost all capacity for language, Sherlock had croaked something vaguely affirmative.

“All right. . .” The man had raised his eyebrows as if waiting for something more, but after a full ten seconds of silence, he’d simply nodded. “Okay. See you ‘round, then.”

Alone in the foyer, brain having finally resurfaced, Sherlock had looked back at the bulletin and pulled a tab off the freshly tacked flyer for one John Watson, chemistry tutor.

“Sherlock?”

Snapping back to the present, Sherlock feigns ignorance. “Run me through it one more time?”

John grins, a touch lopsided and utterly perfect. “Sure.”

When John scoots his chair closer to scribble his corrections on Sherlock’s paper, Sherlock lets his knee fall wide. It brushes it against John's, the contact sending a thrill through him. John doesn't back away.

As the session winds down John taps his papers on the table, fiddles with his pencil, clears his throat. “So. . .”

Sherlock stops packing up his books. There's hesitation in John's voice, a hint of anxiety. It makes his own pulse quicken in response. “Yes?”

“I um. . .” John looks at him, then away. “Well, I was wondering. . . I mean. . .”

Infatuated as he is, even Sherlock has limited patience for incomplete thoughts. “Spit it out, John.”

John chuckles, the cadence landing somewhere between nervous and amused. “Are you going tonight?”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Going where?”

“To the mixer.” At the blank look Sherlock gives him, John elaborates. “The LGBT mixer. The one you were putting up a flyer for the day we met.”

“Oh. Oh, no. I wasn't planning. . . Why? Are you?”

John tips his head side to side, noncommittal. “I was thinking about it.”

Sherlock instantly backpedals, pride be damned. “Well. I don't have anything else on tonight.”

“Yeah?” The corner of John's mouth ticks up.

“I mean, I'll have to reschedule the threesome I had planned with my violin and Felix Mendelssohn, but sure.”

John’s answering smile is nearly blinding. “Fantastic!”

* * *

 The sun is just dipping below the skyline, the air crisp but not uncomfortably cold, as Sherlock walks through the door of Low Key Bar. With its blacked out windows and garish neon sign, he had expected to be assaulted by obnoxious music and the smell of cheap booze. He’s pleasantly surprised.

The lighting is warm and inviting, the décor a tasteful art deco—replete with mirrors and generous swaths of black and gold. There's a baby grand piano in the corner and the woman at the keys is crooning something soft and sensuous.

“Sherlock!” Irene says from her seat at the end of the bar, where she is presiding over the event. She slips off her stool and greets him just inside the entrance with a kiss on the cheek. “I didn't know you were coming.”

“Neither did I, until a few hours ago.”

She reels back a bit and scans him from head to toe. “Oh my God. Do you have a date?”

Sherlock huffs, derisive and deflecting. It isn't even that clever of a deduction. He's dressed in his second tightest pair of jeans and a silk blend shirt open to his sternum, with hair coiffed into an artful disarray.

Sherlock, as a rule, has more than a passing interest in his appearance, but getting ready for tonight had proven a rigorous exercise. He doesn't want to admit how nervous he is, but the fact that he changed his shirt twice and debated between three pairs of socks is pretty damning evidence.

Sherlock scowls at Irene. Irritation is a much more familiar emotion than anxiety. “Is it really so hard to believe?”

“A bit,” Irene scoffs. She turns to face the room, her dangerously high heels bringing her nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock. “Who’s the lucky fella?”

Sherlock looks around the room, anticipation ratcheting up his heart rate. He spies John at a high top table, standing with his back to the door. Sherlock would recognize the nape of John's neck anywhere.

Irene tracks Sherlock’s gaze and hums low and approving. “He's fit.”

Sherlock nods. John’s more than fit. He's a specimen. What he lacks in height he more than makes up for in broad shoulders and narrow hips. From here the view is nothing short of spectacular. Under his jumper is a hint of muscle, defined like ley lines that draw attention down to the bounty of his arse and thighs.

“How do you know him?” Irene asks.

“He's my chemistry tutor.”

She turns to him, manicured eyebrows arched in incredulity. “Why do you need a chemistry tutor?”

“I don't.”

Sherlock leaves her sputtering at the door and saunters across the room, his eyes locked in John. One of the people at John’s table must notice his trajectory, because they perk up and point. When John turns around, everything seems to slow down.

His smile isn’t the thousand-watt grin Sherlock is accustomed to—the one he's used to seeing when he first sits down for a tutoring session. This smile is slow and knowing. It makes Sherlock’s stomach flip.

His eyes are also different. Still a kaleidoscope of blues, but darker, deeper. They move with intent from Sherlock's face, down his body, and back up. And as cliché as it sounds, Sherlock swears he can feel it—like a warm caress against his bare skin.

John doesn’t wait for Sherlock to get to the table, he grabs his pint and meets him in the middle of the room. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Even his voice has taken on a different timbre. It's low and teasing. Flirtatious.

Sherlock swallows. “Hello, John.” He cringes inwardly at the formality in his tone. Relax. “Have you been here long?”

“Just long enough to get a drink. Would you like one?”

Sherlock feels something unfurl in his chest—a knot of tension he hadn't even known he'd been carrying—and smiles.

They end up in a corner booth, talking over first, second, then third pints. Sherlock feels loose—untethered in an exhilarating way. There's no pretense here, just the two of them chatting, getting to know one another outside of an academic setting. They’re revealing tiny bits of themselves, like clues, solving the mystery of one another. And Sherlock can only hope that John likes what he’s discovering.

“So exactly how many chemistry labs have you blown up?” John asks. He shifts in his seat, turns closer. His foot taps against Sherlock’s.

“None.” Sherlock answers, then pauses to consider. “I have started two chemical fires, and there was one incident with a Bunsen burner that could have gotten a little explosive. . .”

John snorts. “A little?”

“You know,” Sherlock says, shifting the conversation to slightly less incriminating topics. “I passed my Year Eleven chemistry course without ever attending class.”

John leans an elbow on the table, rests his cheek on his fist. “How’d you manage that?”

“My teacher was an idiot.”

John gives Sherlock a slow smile. “Care to elaborate?”

“He called hydrogen a noble gas. A noble gas, John. I mean, really?”

“The nerve.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. “I guess he didn't appreciate my correction. Or when I questioned how he managed to tie his shoes in the morning. So he tried to embarrass me. He asked if I was so smart, why don't I just recite the Periodic Table.”

“Oh my God.” John passes a hand down his face, already predicting where this story is going.

“I made it a wager. If I couldn’t do it, I'd never say another word out of turn, and if I could, I wouldn't have to go to class save for exams.”

“And he took that bet?”

Sherlock grins. “Like I said, he was an idiot.”

“So you named every element?”

“Not just name. Name, symbol, atomic number, and mass number. He finally told me to leave once I reached radon.”

John giggles and it maybe the single most melodious sound Sherlock has ever heard. “You can't be serious.”

“Swear to God.”

John’s laughter subsides. “You must be a genius.”

Sherlock feels a flush steal across his cheeks and ducks his head. John watches him through lowered lashes. It looks like adoration and makes Sherlock’s want to squirm.

“Hey,” John slides his foot against Sherlock's again. “You wanna get out of here?”

Sherlock looks up and around, as if he’s forgotten where they are. “What for?”

John levels him with a look that clearly says, _‘think, genius’_. But Sherlock can only blink dumbly. It sounds like a chat up line. But why would John. . . “Oh!”

“Is that a yes?”

“Oh God, yes.”

* * *

 John jiggles the key in his lock, cursing it under his breath. The flat is small but surprisingly clear of clutter, and there's been a valiant effort to cover a faint musty odor with a vanilla air freshener. Sherlock doesn't have the opportunity to observe much more, as he is dragged by the wrist down a short hallway.

“Mike’s out, but I don't know when he's planning on coming back,” John explains as he pulls Sherlock into his room. “We won't be interrupted in here.”

John flicks on the light and shuts the door behind himself. He leans back against it and takes a breath, like he's steadying himself. The idea is preposterous. He has nothing to be nervous about. He's not the one standing here with his hands shoved in his pockets trying desperately not to vibrate out of his skin.

Sherlock's eyes move around the room, taking in the pile of clothes in the corner, the desk covered in textbooks. The bed is directly behind him and he isn't quite sure what to do with that information. Sit perhaps?

“I can't believe you're here,” John says on an exhale. He pushes himself off the door, takes a step towards Sherlock.

“No?”

“No.” John takes another step forward. Then another. His eyes have gone dark and his tongue runs across his bottom lip. “I mean, I've fantasized about it. A lot. But I never thought it'd actually happen.”

“I, uh. . .” Sherlock doesn't know what to say. He's only been in this kind of situation a handful of times, he isn't sure what he's supposed to do. He wants to close the distance, press their mouths together. Taste John. But that seems a bit presumptuous. He's a guest after all. Maybe it would be better to wait for John to—

“Hey.” John’s hands are on Sherlock’s shoulders, rubbing down his arms. “Don’t look so scared. Nothing’s gotta happen tonight.”

Sherlock focuses his gaze, sees concern in the pleating of John’s brow. His brain skips and stutters. A moment ago John was advancing on him, looking deliciously predatory. What happened? Did he just say nothing was going to happen tonight? “Why on Earth not?”

John pulls back a half step, looking even more confused, and that is absolutely unacceptable. Sherlock reaches for him, slips his hands just under his ears to curve around the back of his head, and lowers his mouth.

John makes a small, surprised sound, but doesn’t retreat. A second later, his fingers are tunnelling into Sherlock’s curls and he’s angling for a deeper connection. Sherlock hums, crowds in closer and they stumble backwards. John hits the door with an ‘oof’ and Sherlock presses his advantage, slipping his tongue between John’s lips.

Nothing could have prepared him for the flood of arousal that nearly takes him out at the knees. John's mouth is commanding, capturing Sherlock’s top lip, bottom lip, top again. His tongue plays against Sherlock’s with soft brushes and teasing flicks. And when John pulls away, Sherlock can't help but chase after him.

John’s hands slide down his back, tracing fire through his shirt. They settle on his hips, tug him closer, and—oh, God.

“John!” He breathes. John is hot and hard against his thigh, canting his hips in a languorous rhythm that Sherlock’s body immediately falls into.

The kiss devolves into a smear of lips and tongue and panting breath. John breaks away to slide his mouth across Sherlock’s jaw and down his throat. There's a scrape of teeth that send shivers down his spine and he arches his neck back with a groan.

“Bed,” John says against his skin and it isn't a question.

Sherlock nods, unable to form even the simplest words at the moment. Maybe he pulls back, maybe John pushes him. Either way, they tumble onto the bed, with John on top.

He looks incredible like that—golden hair disheveled, cheeks flushed with arousal. He’s halfway to debauched and Sherlock wants to finish the job.

Sherlock slides his hands up John’s thighs, his hips. He slips them under John’s jumper and feels the heat of his skin. His fingers trace this newfound landscape—up the angle of John's waist, over his ribs and down his back. He desperately wants to see what he’s touching, but doesn’t want to pull away long enough to remove John’s jumper. John shivers, smiles, and seems to read Sherlock's mind as he grabs the hem and pulls the shirt over his head.

The sight of John shirtless—bare chest, the subtlest ripple of abdominals, the trail of honey brown hair leading below a delectable navel—makes something primitive bloom under Sherlock’s ribs and he lifts himself off the bed with a growl. Their mouths clash, ravenous for one another. John wastes no time fumbling with the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, slipping it off his shoulders and tossing it to the floor.

They fall back to the mattress, John’s weight pressing Sherlock down. There’s no rhythm, just writhing, as they kiss and grope. Sherlock runs his hands up John’s back, curls his fingers over John’s shoulders and holds on, anchoring himself against the growing tide of passion.

John’s mouth slips from Sherlock’s, trails down his jaw and settles against the juncture of neck and shoulder. Sherlock moans, a needy, breathy sound. The press of teeth and pull of suction almost distract him from the sensation of John's hand sliding up his side and coming to rest on his pectoral. John cups him, squeezes like he might touch a woman, but Sherlock can't spare a thought to be indignant. Not when John's fingers strafe over his nipple—when he takes thumb and forefinger and pinches.

“Oh God, John!” Sherlock digs his nails into John’s back, claws along his spine. Whether in retribution or encouragement is unclear. Either. Both.

John pulls back to lap his tongue over what Sherlock imagines must be an impressive bruise. He runs his open mouth over the tender flesh and murmurs, “You like that?”

Sherlock arches into the touch. It’s bright sparks of pleasure and tiny spikes of pain and he had no idea. “More, John. Christ.”

John doesn't hesitate. He lowers his head, dropping quick kisses over Sherlock’s chest before closing his lips around Sherlock's other nipple, already peaked in anticipation. He's gentle at first, suckling and flicking his tongue. Then his fingers give a sharp twist and his teeth bite down and Sherlock is howling. He bucks up, finds John’s hard thigh and begins to rut against it.

By the time John relents, Sherlock has gone half feral with lust. The touches turn soft and soothing and Sherlock settles back against the mattress, panting. John's making tiny hushing sounds against his chest and his hand is running up and down the curve of his waist.

When the tension ebs from Sherlock's body, John takes his que to continue. He moves his hand to the edge of Sherlock's jeans, slips his finger under the denim and runs it toward the button. “Okay?”

Sherlock groans. “Don't be absurd.”

John smiles and Sherlock can feel the curve of lips against his too hot, too tight skin. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes. Oui. Sí. Da. What language do you require?”

John pops the button of his flies. “Just English is fine.”

When he hears the rasp of the zip, Sherlock sighs in relief. He's beyond aching—so hard and on edge, it's a bit of a surprise that he doesn't come in his pants when John reaches into the open vee and palms him.

John pulls his hand out, pushes the jeans down and out of the way. He makes a low, gravelly sound in the back of his throat. It sounds raw. Possessive. Sherlock's cock flexes in the confines of his black briefs.

Licking his lips, John brushes the backs of his fingers down the cotton-covered length. He turns his hand, strokes with just the tips of his thumb and first two fingers. Sherlock feels the dual sensation of friction from the fabric and the slick slide of his foreskin underneath. It's maddening.

“That feel good?” John asks, just as breathless as Sherlock.

Sherlock nods, tilts his hips in a silent appeal for more. The teasing touch is like a whetstone on a blade, taking the blunt edge of pleasure and sharpening it—making it sing and spark. And still it's not enough.

“I wanna see you,” John says, still stroking. “Wanna see your cock.”

Sherlock throws his head back on a whine, because really. What’s he supposed to say to that?

John tugs down the waistband of Sherlock's briefs, bunches everything down to his thighs. He stills, stares, and Sherlock might have felt a twinge of self-consciousness if it weren't for the hunger that darkens John’s eyes.

“That,” John murmurs, tracing a feather light touch up the shaft. “Is lovely.”

John wraps his hand around the length, pumps it twice, as if testing, and lets it go. Sherlock whimpers at the loss. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take. But then John is spitting in his palm and suddenly everything is slick and hard and fast.

Sherlock moves with him, thrusting up into his tight fist, seeking more. More pressure, more friction, more of that incandescent pleasure building low in his gut. Making his thighs tremble and hips stutter.

“Yeah,” John breathes. “Fuck my fist. That's it.”

Sherlock chances a look down, sees his prick moving in John’s firm grip. The crown, blushing red and glossy, disappears, reappears—over and over as John twists his hand and pumps.

Without warning, the pleasure peaks. Sherlock feels his balls draw up tight and cries out, voice high and broken. Ecstasy crackles along his nerves and he tenses, dangles over the edge of the precipice for seconds that feel like eons, then falls. Orgasm washes over him, like diving into a warm sapphire sea—an all encompassing rush, then floating weightless until he breaks the surface and gasps for air.

When Sherlock can once again open his eyes again, he sees John straddling his hips, one hand shoved down the front of his open jeans. He looks a bit lost—a bit wild—as he strokes himself. Sherlock leans up, reaches out, and demands, “Come here.”

John scoots up Sherlock’s torso, stops when his knees are nearly in Sherlock’s armpits. He's so close, Sherlock can feel the heat rolling off of him, smell the musk of John’s arousal. And still, Sherlock wants more.

He has a sense of being on the verge of discovery—about to learn something as profound as gravity, as momentous as splitting the atom. He pulls at the waistband of John’s boxers and hooks them under his round, full bollocks.

John’s cock. Christ. It’s magnificent. It sways, heavy and thick, away from John’s pelvis. The tip, still sheathed, is positively drizzling precome.

Sherlock reaches out, grips around the base—the girth filling his grip completely—and squeezes. John hisses, head lolling back. How has this man—this short, unassuming man—managed to keep this hidden?

John’s so wet that Sherlock doesn’t need to worry about lubrication. He can just pump and twist and wring moan after moan from John’s throat. As he strokes, slow and considerate, he observes the glide of foreskin—rolling up to cover the head, then sliding back to reveal a gently flared crown. Over and over again. It's mesmerizing.

“Ohhh, Christ,” John groans. He's got one hand in his hair and another plucking at a dusky nipple. Pure hedonism. “Play—oh God, Sherlock—play with my balls.”

Keeping his strokes long and languorous, Sherlock cups John’s bollocks with his free hand. He rolls them in his fingers, presses them up, and pulls them down. They’re heavy and tight—filled to bursting.

“Ahh. . . Fuck yeah. Fuck, fuck, ohh. . . Sherlock. I'm close. Ahh!”

At John’s desperate keening, Sherlock changes tack. His strokes turn into a flurry, focused in the tip. The crown catches in his tight fist on each upstroke and punches a breathy _‘uh’_ from John’s chest. He tugs on John's sac, releases, tugs again.

He can feel the moment just before John comes, his scrotum pulls taut and his shaft swells fractionally more. Then there's a rumbling moan and John’s cock is throbbing in his hand. The first spurt lands across Sherlock’s cheek, narrowly missing his eye. The next hits his chin, then his throat. The fourth and fifth are weaker, striping his chest. He milks out the rest, creating lewd pool at the top of his sternum. Only when John starts to tremble with oversensitivity, does Sherlock stop stroking.

“Oh my God,” John says, once he's caught his breath. He looks down at Sherlock, pleasure-addled and loose-limbed, and grins. “Look at you. Gotcha all messy.”

Sherlock smiles back and swipes his finger through the streak on his cheek. He's about to bring it to his lips when John intercepts, grabs him by the wrist, and licks him clean. “Not until we're tested.”

Sherlock frowns, then considers the implication. “Does that mean you want to do this again?”

“This and a whole lot more. . . If that's what you want.”

“That is _exactly_ what I want.”

John beams at him, tugs at an errant curl, and sets about getting them cleaned up. Once Sherlock had been satisfactorily wiped down and they’re both tucked back into their jeans, they settle back on the bed. John has nestled against Sherlock’s side and tossed an arm over his naked belly.

“I think,” Sherlock says, after a contented stretch of silence. “If we’re to continue this, there is something I should tell you.”

John sits back, a look of consternation on his face. “Oh, God. Is this where you tell me you have a boyfriend?”

Sherlock looks over at John, utterly confused.“Who’d want me for a boyfriend?” John lifts an eyebrow and Sherlock blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh’,”

Sherlock gives a sheepish grin. “Well. That aside. No. I think it's only fair that I tell you, I may have started our acquaintanceship under false pretenses.”

“Acquaintanceship?”

“Relationship?”

“Better. And what are these false pretenses?”

“I didn't need an organic chemistry tutor, John. In fact, I passed that class last semester with one hundred and two percent. I'm sorry I lied—”

“I know.”

“I just couldn’t—wait. What?”

John laughs. “Of course I knew. You may be a genius but you're not all that clever sometimes. I could see right through you.”

Sherlock looks down, regards John with blooming adoration. “Why didn't you say anything?”

John shrugs and settles back against Sherlock’s chest. “It was fun to pretend.”


	2. Nursing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is my first, kinky foray into Omegaverse, featuring Alpha!John, Omega!Sherlock, and an unexpected surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special shout out to everybody who has commented, left kudos, or sent me a message! You have rekindled my love for writing fic and I can't thank you enough.
> 
> Here is the next installment of this varitable porn parade! Enjoy some lactation kink!

“Oh God, baby,” John says, breath hot against the nape of my neck. His hand slips over my hip, up the swell of my belly and cups gently around my breast. “Christ your tits are huge.”

“All of me is huge,” I sigh.

He nuzzles in closer, his fingers trailing back down over my stomach. He traces patterns against my skin and I shiver with a delicious tendril of arousal. Even now, well into my third trimester, John continues to be aroused by me—by my rotund and increasingly traitorous body. His libido has never wavered and, in fact, I think his appetites have increased in the last few weeks. Since the baby started kicking. He can't seem to take his hands off of me.

Part of me wants to be insulted—insisting it's just his bloody Alpha instincts, coddling me and protecting his offspring. But then he whispers into my ear—calls me beautiful and asks if I want anything, need anything. He comes home from a grueling day at the surgery and rubs my feet while he complains about the new paperwork system they’ve put in place that nobody seems to understand. He takes me to bed and spends an eternity sucking my cock, despite the fact that I can barely see him over the growing expanse of my belly.

Even now, I can feel his hard length nudging between my cheeks and I push back, encouraging a gentle rocking. I can't say for sure where this is going, but the morning light is soft and grey, and the patter of rain on the window is the perfect accompaniment to a lazy day in bed.

John’s hand sweeps back up, cups me again. He squeezes lightly—mindful of possible tenderness—but I'm not sore today, so I place my hand over his and squeeze harder. He takes the hint, kneading my full breast while he mouths across the line of my shoulder.

There’s a low simmer of desire in my belly, slowly radiating outward. It makes me drive my hips back a bit harder and arch my chest into his touch. I'm not hard yet, but my cock is awake and interested.

The kneading stops, and the tips of his fingers drag up to the pebbled areola and pluck delicately at my nipple. Again and again, he trails his fingertips up, sometimes circling, sometimes pinching, sometimes twisting. There’s no pattern to the touch and the anticipation of the next sensation is driving me wild.

Arousal flares deep inside, stiffens my prick and makes me slick. I start to squirm and moan and John sighs against my skin. “I'm gonna come all over you if you keep moving like that.”

“Ohhhh. . .” I whimper. Because that would be lovely. John's thick come marking me, absorbing into my skin. Anything to make his claim that much stronger.

_Oh, Lord_. These fucking Omega thoughts—so cloyingly sentimental. It must be the hormones. But as much as I’d love to, I can’t deny the appeal.

John’s pinching has gotten a bit rougher and it sends shivery sparks of pleasure down my spine. There's a tingling sensation in my tits and I feel lightheaded. I gasp and the wave of vertigo passes, but there's a heaviness in my breasts that wasn't there a moment ago.

John twists again and that’s when I feel it. A warmth sliding down chest.

“Sherlock. . . What’s? Oh. Oh!” In the span of about five seconds, John's voice morphs from confused to understanding to pleasantly surprised.

I look down to confirm what I already know—milk is pearling up from my nipple, still trapped between John’s finger and thumb. I watch as a drop slides down the swell of my breast. Then another.

“Oh my God,” I groan, mortified. “I'm leaking.”

John must not notice my embarrassment as he licks his lips and says, “Yeah you are.”

I stare at him, disbelieving. “John.”

He ignores me in favor of shifting closer and rolling the dripping nub, slow and gentle. More milk dribbles out, not enough to qualify as a squirt, but certainly more than before.

“John.” It’s supposed to be an admonishment, but it comes out too low and breathy.

John finally looks up, eyes wide and teeth caught on his bottom lip. _Oh, God_. He’s eager. He wants. . . Wants. . .

“Do you. . .” I start, then stop because I can't believe what I'm about to say. But I haven't seen this kind of giddy enthusiasm in John since I suggested tying him to the bed and edging him over and over for the few days leading up to my last heat. He’d been so worked up, so desperate to come, that he’d had me knotted within five minutes. He’d pumped me full and deep, and we both knew in that moment—as we cried out in near unison—that I'd been bred.

It's as clear to me now as it was to me then, that I can deny John Watson nothing.

“Would you like to taste?”

John’s glittering eyes go dark. “Yeah?”

It’s difficult to look haughty when you're the size of a small planet and drizzling milk from your tits like a shoddy spiget, but I do my best. “You put me in this condition after all.”

John’s answering grin is possessive—proprietary—and my cock twitches in response.

Moving with caution, John braces one hand on the mattress and leans over me. He's careful not to put too much weight on my belly as he lowers his head and nuzzles between my breasts. I feel the warm swipe of his tongue, then the vibration of his rumbling moan.

“Oh, God,” he murmurs into my skin.

“Is it good?” I ask, more a scientific curiosity than anything else.

“So good.” He licks again. “Warm and thick and sweet.”

His tongue follows the glistening path of milk up to its source and laps at the slow but steady flow. With his free hand he squeezes my breast, rhythmic and massaging—encouraging more. His tongue flicks and circles and a tingling sensation begins to pulse and spread.

I need more.

“Suck.” I mean it as a command, but my breathy exhale turns it into a plea.

He looks up, a smear of wetness on his chin. “What?”

Desperate for him to return his mouth, I arch up. “Suck on my tits.”

“Jesus.” He groans, but doesn’t hesitate.

His whole mouth covers my areola—hot and wet—and I sigh in relief. A cocktail of oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin sings in my veins, leaving me intoxicated and brimming with pleasure.

When John cups his tongue against my hard nipple and takes a long, slow pull, I moan a low and utterly indecent _‘fuuuuuuuck’_. I can feel the heavy flow of milk now and I become vaguely aware of increased leaking elsewhere—from my cock and my arsehole.

I'm writhing with the need for everything all at once. I want John to suck harder. I want his fat Alpha cock in my arse. I want his hand on my weeping prick. I want him to hold me and stoke me and lick me everywhere.

He’s drinking from me like a man lost in the desert and I'm an oasis. He makes soft suckling sounds that are wonderfully lewd in combination with the chorus of our moans. I card my fingers through his short silver-blond hair and he lifts his gaze to meet mine. The look we share says _‘I didn't know I would want this so much’_ and _‘thank you’_ and _‘I need more’_.

John sucks one more time, long and savoring, then pulls off. I trickle a bit and he courteously laps it up before he pushes himself away. He takes my legs and begins to rearrange them—spreading and shifting them—until he’s satisfied. He slots himself between them, slides his cock into the space between the top of my thigh and the lower curve of my belly, and gives an experimental thrust. It’ll work. _God_ , it’ll work perfectly.

He closes his hand around my hard shaft, leans down again, and runs the flat of his tongue over my other, untouched, breast. My body responds eagerly, a pearly drop welling up from my nipple. He flicks a few more times and I gasp as the milk begins to flow.

“That’s it,” he says, lips brushing the sensitive skin. “Daddy’s thirsty.”

_"Christ!"_ A spike of arousal crackles through me, white hot and so intense that I almost come on the spot. 

John gives me wicked smile, then puts his mouth exactly where I want it. He sucks and ruts and strokes, and I'm consumed by this endless feedback loop of pleasure: his tongue sliding against my nipple and mouth pulling at my tit, his fist pumping fast and loose over the head of my dick, and the feel of his thick cock moving against my body.

I moan even louder, wanton and unrestrained, as I feel the first lapping sensation of orgasm. It starts low in my gut and radiates out—a ripple of pleasure growing stronger and stronger—until I'm arching off the bed, thrusting into John’s hand, and gasping for breath.

I'm still floating in this sea of bliss as John grunts and pulls off my breast. Milk squirts against his cheek as he spills against me, hot come coating my stomach and hip.

He sags back, panting, and rubs his hands over my rotund belly. The baby is kicking, no doubt in response to my elevated heart rate and the flood of orgasm induced endorphins. He presses his hand down and grins fondly.

I find myself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, so I smile back and say, “Well then.”

John lifts his brow in assent. “Yup.”

As the minutes draw out, I become aware of the various fluids cooling and drying all over my body. “Shower, I think.”

“Hmmm,” John agrees. Then reconsiders. “Bath.”

He helps me out of the bed and into the tub, where he runs bathwater cooler than I prefer but as warm as is recommended for my state. He washes me with a thickly lathering soap that fills the bathroom with the scent of lavender, and dips me back to wet, then rinse, my hair.

“You know,” I say as he's running his fingers through my curls, smoothing out any tangles. “I won't be able to breastfeed if I've had any alcohol. I believe the colloquialism is ’pump and dump’.”

“Oh?” John says, but his nonchalance is belied by the way his tongue slips over his bottom lip. “That seems a waste.”

I slide back in the tub and let my eyes slip closed under his soothing touch. “My thoughts exactly.”


	3. Unusual Sex Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case, a chat, and one thing leads to another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know sounding isn't for everyone, but I really enjoyed writing this so I hope y'all give it a shot!

“Huh.” Sherlock stood from his crouch, looming over the corpse lying slack on the bathroom floor.

“Huh?” Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. “What’s ‘huh’?”

“A vague sound of interest.”

Lestrade heaved a sigh, annoyance and exhaustion expelled in one breath. “Of course it's interesting to you, it's the fourth victim of a serial killer. Frankly I’m surprised you didn't pirouette as soon as you set eyes on the body.”

“No.”

“No? Because John’s told me you're pretty good in first position.”

John, still kneading on the lino next to the body, shot Lestrade a glare that screamed ‘the fuck, mate?’.

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “Pirouettes start in fifth position, and no—this isn't one of the serial killer’s victims.”

“How is this not our serial killer? Young man, ginger, strangled to death in his own home. John, help me out here.”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock taunted. “Help the detective inspector see why this isn’t one of his victims.”

John returned his attention to the body—with its blank, bloodshot eyes and bruising across his throat. “The signs of strangulation are all there, just like the other three victims. . .”

“But?” Sherlock prompted.

John examined the corpse closer, a frown of concentration bracketing his mouth. “But. . . the other victims were all strangled manually and these are obviously ligature marks.”

“Killer could have changed his method. That's not unheard of.”

Sherlock gave Lestrade his third most withering expression. “It doesn't change the fact that this body has no defensive wounds, or that all the previous victims were working class and this man was obviously in a high-stress management role with aspirations of climbing the corporate ladder.”

“How—”

“You said the wife found him. Where is she?”

Lestrade huffed. “She’s in the kitchen, but Sherlock. Try to be nice, yeah? She’s pregnant and she just found her husband dead in the bathroom.”

Sherlock spun out of the room, coattails billowing behind him, John and Lestrade close on his heels.

“Mrs. Delaney,” he announced as he entered the well appointed kitchen—all stainless steel and marble, tasteful but lacking in personality. The woman at the table looked up, eyes puffy and nose red. “If you would be so kind as to point us to where you hid the rope.”

“What?” She hiccuped, fresh tears welling up.

“Your husband may have killed himself but he didn't commit suicide.”

The woman wrung the tissue in her hands. “I don’t know—”

“Yes, you do. You came home, found your husband with a rope around his neck and panicked. But you needn’t worry, you'll still be able to collect his life insurance. Now. The rope.”

“Sherlock,” John said low and warning, as the woman’s lip began to tremble.

“What’re you on about?” Lestrade asked.

“Autoerotic asphyxiation,” Sherlock answered, with admittedly more glee than was probably appropriate.

John and Lestrade responded in unison. _“What?”_

“It’s obvious. The location of the body, the bruising. She did her best to hide the evidence, but in her duress she failed to do up his flies properly and completely missed the open bottle of lubricant just behind the door. Embarrassment may explain tidying up, but not lying to the police. She knew it needed to look like a murder to ensure she could collect the life insurance. With a baby on the way and a fair amount of debt from recent remodeling, she’ll certainly be needing that money.”

Mrs. Delaney’s expression crumpled, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I-I’m so sorry.”

* * *

 

“Human behavior will never cease to baffle me,” Sherlock said as the cab pulled away from the kerb.

John shrugged. “Different strokes for different folks. Literally in this case.”

Sherlock smirked. “Indeed. But that wasn't what I meant.”

“No?”

“No. The wife, John. In the shock of finding her husband’s body in such a state she still had the presence of mind to stage the scene.”

John chuckled. “It shouldn't surprise me that the autoerotic asphyxiation wasn’t the most interesting part of that case to you.”

“Why should it be?” Sherlock leaned in closer and laid his hand high on John’s thigh. “You of all people know I like to experiment.”

John smiled back, dark and knowing. “That I do.”

Sherlock sat back, quiet and contemplative as he retreated into his mind palace. He sorted through years of conversations and observations: John’s browser history and his stash of masturbatory aides under the bed; a parade of sexually satisfied, if not boring, lovers; embarrassing anecdotes told over several rounds on John's 38th birthday; and most recently, late night whispers as fingertips explored skin. But he could find nothing to answer the question in his head.

He resurfaced and looked speculatively at John. “Have you ever tried it?”

“Choking myself during a wank?” John’s voice was low, mindful of the cabbie. “No. Always seemed like a lot of work to set up, especially if don't want to end up like Mr. Delaney.” He gave Sherlock a considering once over. “Have you?”  
  
“When I was a teenager.” Sherlock answered. His hand slid unconsciously to his throat. “I used the sash of my dressing gown and a slippery hitch knot.”

“Really?”

“Just one more reason it’s amazing I made it to thirty.”

John smiled—a warm, fond look that reminded Sherlock of murmured confessions and tender kisses. He shifted in his seat. “Did you like it?”

“It was. . . Interesting, I suppose. But after a few times I got bored.”

“Of course you did,” John laughed.

Another silence drew out, but this time it was John who withdrew to reflect. He looked out the window, ostensibly to watch the cityscape slide by. They were nearing Baker Street when he spoke again.

John leaned over—close enough that Sherlock could smell the crisp scent of his shampoo, and the warmth of his skin—and whispered. “I used to do something else while wanking.”

“Oh?” Sherlock rumbled, intrigued and instantly on his way to aroused.

John tilted up, brushing his lips over Sherlock’s ear. “I would take a five millimeter hex key, and stick it. . .” He stopped, a shaky breath tickling against sensitive skin. “I’d stick it down my cock. Fuck myself with it, then plug it up and toss off.”

The sudden rush of blood to his groin left Sherlock lightheaded. “Oh,” he exhaled.

“I stopped in uni,” John continued, slipping his hand between Sherlock’s thighs. “Didn't have the time or the privacy for indulgent wanks. And honestly the idea hadn't crossed my mind in years. But now that I'm thinking about it. . .”

“Here we are, gents,” the cabbie barked, apparently not keen to have two grown men dry humping in the backseat.

John’s hand lingered on Sherlock’s inseam as he pulled away. “Why don't you go upstairs and put on the kettle.”

“Is that some kind of euphemism?”

The smoldering heat in John's eyes brooked no argument. “It's a request.”

Despite the burgeoning erection tightening his trousers—or perhaps because of it—Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. He bustled about in the kitchen, listening for the sound of John’s tread on the step. The front door opened and closed, but instead of coming upstairs, John knocked on the door of 221a. Sherlock frowned down at the worktop, wondering if he’d somehow misread the heat in John’s gaze.

“Water’s almost boiled,” he said over his shoulder as John finally crossed the threshold.

John came up behind him, pressed a hand against the small of his back. He nuzzled behind Sherlock’s ear, lips brushing against his neck. “Why don't you go sit on the couch. I'll finish up in here.”

After a bit of rustling and the tell-tale sound of water being poured, John followed Sherlock into the sitting room. He crossed the room, empty handed, and sat down next to Sherlock.

“You seem to have forgotten the tea,” Sherlock noted.

John threw an arm over the back of the couch and smoothed one hand over Sherlock’s knee. He leaned in. “Who said anything about tea?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. “Then what did I put the kettle on for?”

The hand on the couch moved into Sherlock’s hair, playing with the curls at his nape. “In a minute. Right now I want to talk a bit more about sexual experimentation.”

“What would you like to know?”

“What else have you tried?”

Sherlock smirked. “You already know about the prostate massager and spanking, and now the autoerotic asphyxiation. What else do you expect?”

“I've learned to never expect anything with you.” John said, the fingers on Sherlock’s leg beginning to circle and climb.

Sherlock shivered and spread his legs wider, inviting John to continue his exploration. With the fingers in his hair, scratching against his scalp, and the hand slowly working its way up his thigh, he felt like a well-stroked cat—indolent and adored. He closed his eyes and hummed. “Hmm. . . I’ve attempted to fellate myself.”

John laughed, amused but not at all teasing. “What guy hasn't. How'd it go?”

“You've seen my torso.” Sherlock skimmed his hand from collar bone to hip. “Even at my most limber, I could just lick the tip.”

“Better than I ever managed.” John’s hand abandoned its journey up Sherlock’s leg, moving instead to his chest. With a thumb strafing over his nipple, it was difficult for Sherlock to concentrate on John’s words. “Anything else? Ever try to fuck a cucumber or, I dunno, a carrot?”

Nipple tight and erection now straining in his pants, Sherlock fought to keep his voice even. “Is it common practice to attempt intercourse with produce?”

“Common enough.” John said with a chuckle. A flush tinted his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I used an aubergine once on a bet.”

“You used an aubergine as a dildo on a bet?” Sherlock couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“Not as a dildo, no,” John answered, a bit chagrined. “I cored it, warmed it up in the microwave and wanked with it.”

Sherlock tried not to gawk. This was, by all accounts, not the strangest thing he’d discovered about John—or vice versa—but the visual was certainly the most absurd. “How’d that work?”

“It was great. For the first thirty seconds,” John admitted. “But the skin fell apart after about a dozen strokes. After that it was just wanking with a fistful of warm mush.”

Sherlock couldn't help wrinkling his nose. “That’s. . . disgusting.”

John shrugged and pinched at the peak of nipple visible under Sherlock’s shirt. “Got the job done.”

“You should have warmed it up from the inside,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “You could have filled the hollowed out cavity with hot water and let it seep into the flesh. Repeated as necessary until it reached the desired temperature.”

“I didn't have that much patience at fourteen.” John’s fingers had turned purposeful, slipping buttons open down the front of Sherlock’s shirt.

“But you have the patience now. Oh—” Sherlock sucked in a breath as John’s hand slipped under fabric, fingers unerringly seeking out the hard bud that had been teased into exquisite sensitivity.

“Mmm. . . not when it comes to you.”

With obvious reluctance, John pulled away. He stood, took a moment to adjust the bulge in his trousers, and made his way back to the kitchen. Without leaving his seat on the couch, Sherlock craned to see what was going on, but could only catch a glimpse of blue jumper as John moved from the table to the hob to the sink. When he came back Sherlock had the unfamiliar sensation of being struck dumb.

John stood halfway between the kitchen and the couch, the warmth of the afternoon light paled by the incandescent heat in his eyes. In his right hand he held a tube of medical grade lubricant—pilfered from the surgery and kept in the first aid kit under the sink—and in his left hand, held tight by a pair of tongs, he brandished. . .

“A crochet hook,” John confirmed. “I’d say five or so millimeters in diameter. Six inches long, though we won't be needing all of that.”

“A crochet hook,” Sherlock repeated, still processing the sight. He had so many questions— _why? How? Who?_ —and somehow the least important was the one that tumbled out. “Where’d you get a crochet hook?”

“Bit obvious isn't it?”

“You stole that from our elderly landlady?”

John looked utterly unrepentant. “When was the last time you saw Mrs. Hudson crochet so much as a scarf? I think she just uses her yarn basket to hide her other stash of herbal soothers.”

Sherlock smiled, something between amazement and amusement. “And you thought you could put it to good use?”

“Oh, I know I can.” John's grin was positively lecherous.

“So you boiled it.” Sherlock couldn’t resist drawing this moment out. Pulling it like taffy—teasing and enticing.

John nodded. “Sanitized it. Yeah.”

“Because you plan on putting it. . .”

“I plan on having _you_ put it in _me_.”

Sherlock's mouth went dry. “Jesus.”

The next few minutes were a flurry of preparatory activity. Sherlock washed his hands, John took a piss and made quick work of cleaning is achingly hard cock with soap and water. He couldn’t linger, for the risk of shooting off over the bathroom sink.

He walked back into the sitting room in all his naked glory, heavy erection bobbing obscenely with each confident stride. Sherlock, who had stripped to his too-tight briefs, fell to his knees in front of John’s chair.

“Here,” he gestured with the tip of the hook. “Let's do it here.”

“Alright.”

John sat, spread his legs wide, and leaned back. He took his prick in hand, giving it slow stokes—squeezing at the tip—until the slit glistened with precome. Apparently satisfied, he grabbed at the base and tilted it toward Sherlock, looking for all the world like a man accustomed to being serviced thusly.

Sherlock’s mouth watered, but he knew that if he were to take his tongue and slide it over that gorgeous, wet head, John would just have to get up and wash all over again. But, there was nothing stopping him from ducking lower and suckling at John’s bollocks. As soon as he closed his mouth around one of John’s plump testicles, he heard a bone-deep groan and felt fingers tunneling into his hair. He sucked and lapped, lipped at the loose skin.

“Wait.” John was breathless as he tugged at Sherlock’s curls. “You can do that again once we’ve got this thing in.”

Sherlock pulled back and licked his lips, tasted salt and musk. John ran his fingers through his hair again, pushing it off his brow. He smiled down at Sherlock with such adoration that Sherlock had to wonder what he saw. Eagerness certainly, submission perhaps. The idea didn't bother Sherlock as much as he might have once thought.

He wasn't accustomed to admitting he didn't know something, let alone asking for help, but he had no room for pride in his endeavor. He peered up from between John’s legs. “What do I do?”

“Take the lube,” John said, grabbing the tube from the side table. “And coat the rod, then smear it into the slit. Get everything as wet as fucking possible.”

Sherlock did as he was told, lubing the hook from the round end all the way to the wide grip. Once the rod was dripping with thick, clear lubricant, he squirted a dollop on his finger and looked to John for guidance. With one hand, John held himself steady, and with the other he circled the head with thumb and forefinger. He pulled back firmly and Sherlock watched as the lips of John’s slit parted, revealing pink, tender flesh.

“Oh,” Sherlock sighed. His cock throbbed in his briefs and he felt dizzy with lust. It wasn't just the sexual nature of the act. It was the trust and vulnerability.

He brought his finger to the opening, covering it in slick. He worked it in and around until John gave a shaky nod. “That should be good.”

“You sure?” Sherlock looked up, finger still running in circles.

“It’ll have to be, because if you do any more I’m gonna burst.”

“All right.” Sherlock sat back on his heels and held up the crochet hook, holding like an orchestral conductor would hold a wand. “Now what?”

John took a deep breath, held it, and blew it out in a steady stream. It was the same calming technique he used before taking a shot or after pushing balls deep into Sherlock. “Now you’re gonna place the end just inside and let it slide down. Don’t push it, just guide it. If it stops, don’t force it. I'll let you know if it's uncomfortable.”

Biting his lip in concentration, Sherlock slipped the round end into the wet slit. From there, gravity did the work. John hissed as the rod slid down in increments, but when Sherlock glanced up, the expression on John’s face was just shy of ecstasy. His eyes were closed and brow knotted in that way could be either pleasure or pain, but his mouth was a gaping softly, his pink tongue pressing against his top teeth. Sherlock returned his attention to the matter at hand, and was surprised to find the rod had slipped in another half inch.

After a minute of gentle guidance, almost two inches of metal had penetrated John’s urethra. “I think that's it,” Sherlock said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” John croaked, “Fuck yeah.”

“How’s it feel?” Sherlock, tracing his finger along the edge, where rod met flesh.

“ _Christ_.” John groaned. His cock flexed and the rod slipped in another fraction of an inch. “Oh! Christing fuck!”

“Good then?”

John giggled, a bit manic. “So good. Fuck. So sensitive. It's this pressure, like when you come so hard you nearly pass out.”

“Should I move it?”

John whimpered. “Yeah. Yeah, do that. But slow.”

Sherlock gripped the slick rod, pulled out and eighth of an inch. A quarter. Then, with the care and precision he’d apply to his most delicate experiment, pushed it back in.

“Good,” John mewled. “More.”

Sherlock began a rhythm—pull, push, slow and steady—until John was panting, fingers clenched around the chair arms. He watched with fascination as he fucked the tender slit of John’s cock, dragging the rod a bit farther, a bit faster.

“Sher—” John moaned, high and needy. “Touch me. Stroke me—Ahh. Light and fast. Keep. Oh, God. Keep fucking me.”

“Yes, John.” With his right hand Sherlock worked the rod in and out, and with his left he used just the tip of finger and thumb to quickly slide John’s foreskin back and forth over the generous flare of his glans.

Sherlock had always thought John had a beautiful prick—long and thick, straight save for the gentle upward curve that never failed to hit his prostate when they fucked face-to-face. But it looked absolutely spectacular at this moment: the entire length blushed a deep red, nearly purple at the tip where lube and precome covered the head in a shiny, slippery mess. And all the while glinting metal filled and stretched him.

“Oh... _fuck_.” John threw his head back, tendons in his neck straining. “Close.”

For a moment, Sherlock considered slowing down and teasing John until he could see tears glisten in his eyes. But no. Not this time. Today was about exploration and trust, not testing boundaries.

“What do I do when you come? Leave it in or pull it out?” Sherlock gripped him a fraction tighter, careful not to pinch.

John whimpered, hips rolling in time to the frantic pace of Sherlock's strokes. “P-pull it out. Oh God. So close.”

“Can I suck you?” Sherlock asked, more a plea than a request. “When you come, can I wrap my lips around your cock and have you come down my throat?”

“Yes. Yes, Sherlock! Now.”

In one smooth motion, Sherlock slid the crochet hook out of John’s slit and replaced it with his own pointed, probing tongue. He only had a second to spare a thought for the bitter taste of lube before warm, salty come flooded his mouth.

“Ooooh!” John cried out. “Sher-Sherlock. Fuck!”

John's hips thrust up, pushing his cock deeper—pulsing over Sherlock's tongue, spilling down his throat. Sherlock sucked it down, swallowed every last drop like a gift, a panacea.

Above him, John moaned like a man undone. He gasped and cursed and held nothing back. Bellows of pure pleasure, rumbles of distilled ecstasy. From his position on the floor—kneeling at John’s feet, with a hot prick between his lips—Sherlock marveled.

As a couple, they were by no means sexually restrained. They explored each other’s fantasies just as readily as their bodies. Learning each other’s limits, uncovering each other’s secrets, and relishing in everything they shared. In that regard, today was nothing new. But as John’s fingers clawed at the chair, as his face and neck and chest flushed with the intensity of his orgasm, Sherlock felt confident today was truly special. It was there in John’s whimpers, the tremors in his thighs, the way he pushed feebly at Sherlock's head once he’d grown too sensitive.

With one last savoring pull, Sherlock let him go. He licked his lips, imagining he could taste John's bliss.

“Am I dead?” John panted. “I think you actually killed me.”

“You are very much alive,” Sherlock reassured, stroking his hands down John's legs. “But I do fear you're in no condition for reciprocity.”

John blinked his eyes open and looked dazedly down at Sherlock. “Give me a minute. I just. . .” he sighed, almost a whine. “I need a minute.”

“Or.” Sherlock lifted himself up, no longer sitting on his heels. “You can sit there in an orgasmic haze while I use your body like a canvas for my spunk.”

John shuddered. He had a weakness for Sherlock's more domineering side, and a fondness for crude language—facts that Sherlock didn't mind taking advantage of, given the right circumstances. And these were absolutely the right circumstances.

He crawled up the chair, settling his knees on either side of the cushion, straddling John’s lap. His cock ached for attention, pressing against his briefs, but rather than simply taking himself in hand Sherlock gave into a moment of self indulgence. Head tilted back, he traced his fingers down neck, over his chest, and plucked at his nipples. A fresh wave of need washed over him, pooling low in his groin and making his prick throb.

Just when the denial began to take on the flavor of torment did Sherlock let his hands stray down, dip into his briefs, and pull out his weeping cock. He took his time, giving himself long, slow strokes that only made him want more.

“Oh, God. John.” Sherlock moaned, breath catching in his throat. “John I'm already so close.”

John’s hands, still weak in his lassitude, cupped Sherlock's hips. “That's it, love. Work the tip. You know you love that. Give yourself a twist. Yeah. Just like that.”

“John!” Sherlock gasped, tight fist now flying over his slippery cockhead.

He could feel his climax, sizzling under his skin, searing through his veins. It coalesced, grew dense, gathered intensity. Then, like a supernova, exploded.

Sherlock’s voice rang out—a cry and a shout, a curse and a prayer—as he painted thick stripes of come over John's neck and chest. Five, six, seven streaks of milky white anointed him and John never once flinched. Instead he ran his fingers through the mess, smeared it into his skin.

“Let me help you clean that up.” Sherlock swiped a bit up and offered it to John, rubbing it across his bottom lip until he sucked the finger into his mouth.

“You’re incredible,” John said, eyes soft and voice earnest—shifting the mood from playful to sincere. “Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled and leaned down, tongue darting out to catch the remnants glistening against John’s lips. “No, John. Thank you. And thank Mrs. Hudson for her yarn basket. But I think we'll be keeping that crochet hook.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleas note: while sounding can be a very enjoyable experience, it must be practiced with care. There are lots of resources out there if you're interested, so do a little research before diving in. On that note, don't be like John—there are surgical steel sounds and plugs available in a wide variety of shapes and sizes. You needn't resort to household objects. Please, be nice to your urethras folks.
> 
> Anyway... Let me know what you thought and I'll see you in the next chapter: Food.


	4. Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good meal should be savored.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know when an idea sort of gets away from you? Yeah. This is that. Luckily, it got away from me in some of the best ways possible.  
> Not beta'd or britpicked.  
> Enjoy!

Mycroft dabbed a spot of crimson from the corner of his mouth with a black cloth napkin. Never white— _too gauche._

“Don't play with your food, Sherlock,” he chided, his tone the tedious drawl of exasperation at correcting his little brother's social foibles.

“ _Don't play with your food, Sherlock_ ,” Sherlock parroted, flat and mocking. Little in this world made him happier than being that source of exasperation.

“Don't be childish. It's a nasty habit and you were raised better.”

Sherlock drew himself up, going as far as to lift his chin and set his jaw. “If you don't like it, leave. Or better yet, I'll take my dinner to bed. Would that soothe your delicate sensibilities?”

“Sherlock. . .”

“Bed it is.”

Sherlock stood and looked down his nose at his brother. Fuck Mycroft and his ill conceived sense of propriety. There was no need for pretense, they weren't fooling anyone or hiding in the shadows. With a huff and an admittedly melodramatic spin on his heel, Sherlock retreated.

He swept out of the dining room, up the grand staircase, and down the sparsely lit corridor—complete with ostentatious gilt-framed oil paintings and glowing wall sconces. The sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. With the exception of discrete modernization, the manor was a relic—a time-capsule from the Holmes patriarch that broke ground here centuries ago.

Sherlock hated it.

At the end of the corridor, a dark room beckoned. It wasn't Sherlock’s style—with woven tapestries hanging on the walls and animal skin rugs lining the floor—but the thick velvet drapery and ornate four-poster bed did the job.

With the flip of a switch low light diffused through the room, like a warm summer evening, tinting the world gold. “Sorry about that,” Sherlock said, closing the door and turning to his meal. “My brother has a condition that makes him an insufferable prat.”

Dinner—John, was his name—raised an eyebrow. “And what condition is that?”

“Old world vampirism.” Sherlock grinned, not bothering to hide the razor-sharp tips of his canines.

John didn't flinch. He noticed—of course he noticed—but he didn't flinch. “Does that mean you're also gonna turn out to be an insufferable prat?”

Sherlock blinked, surprised and amused in equal measure. “You are delightful.”

John shifted on his feet. “Um. Ta?”

“Most humans are scared. Even if they voluntarily seek our company, they still have an instinctual fear. Something in the hindbrain that says _‘danger’_. But you. You don't seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening.” John smiled, simultaneously teasing and sincere.

Sherlock’s smile widened of its own volition. He wasn't typically so expressive, preferring to appear aloof and disinterested: it had the dual advantage of meeting people’s expectations and keeping them at a distance. But he found himself disarmed by John’s fearlessness, confidence, and quick wit. It didn't help that John was such a beautiful specimen—shaggy blond hair and dark blue eye, fit without being bulky and just tan enough to suggest he spent at least some of his free time on the pitch. A bit on the short side, but nobody’s perfect.

Loathe as he would be to admit it, Sherlock was a bit enamored.

“Now.” Sherlock reached out and ran the tip of his finger along the collar of John’s t-shirt. “Where were we?”

Their eyes met, a fleeting moment that left the air inexplicably charged. Without a word, John sidestepped Sherlock and moved the to the bed. He sat down, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head to the side. He glanced back at Sherlock from under a fan of blond lashes, a soft simper curling his lips. Sherlock didn't believe the coquettish act for one moment, but he was drawn to it nonetheless.

He sat down next to John, crowding up against him, feeling his warmth and the steady beat of his heart. His hand skimmed up John’s throat and over his jaw, cradling his head. He dropped his face to John’s neck, ran his nose along the thrumming pulse, and inhaled John’s scent—the tang of sweat and sweet aroma of pheromones. Thirst clouded his thoughts, but he quelled it and cleared his mind.

Lips brushing against John’s skin, he asked, “How long have you been in meal service?”

“A little over a year.” John said on an exhale. “I'm on a fifty-six day interval, so this is only my seventh job.”

Sherlock nuzzled behind the hinge of John’s jaw, feeling the tickle of soft hair again his skin. “Do you enjoy it?”

“It helps to pay for books and lab fees.” Sherlock pulled back, looking for a glint of humor in John’s eyes. He frowned when he found none. John shrugged. “As a paycheck goes, it's not bad. It’s not like it's hard work. But, ya know. People talk.”

Sherlock ducked his head again, running his lips against the thud of John’s pulse. “People do little else.”

John sighed and let his head fall to the side. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Is that resignation in your tone?” Sherlock asked as he ran the blade of of his teeth up John’s neck.

John shivered, gooseflesh raising in the wake of Sherlock’s mouth. “More like acceptance. There's always gonna be people who disapprove. People who will say meal service is no better than prostitution.”

“And what do you say to that?”

“After ‘fuck off, dickhead’? I'd say it's an insult to sex workers. Christ knows they put in a lot more effort than I do.”

Sherlock chuckled, a rumble deep in his chest. “I don't know that the two occupations are really that different from one another. Both involve a person providing access to their bodies and the exchange of bodily fluids.”

“The lack of orgasms is a pretty big difference.”

Sherlock pulled away—still close enough to feel John’s heat, but no leaning into him. He cocked his head in consideration. “Are you typically enthralled by your clients?”

John looked back, puzzled. “Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty much standard procedure. Most vamp—er... hemophages—”

“‘Vampire’,” Sherlock interrupted, “is a perfectly adequate moniker. It's certainly the most ubiquitous and it's orders of magnitude better than  _‘fanger’_.”

“Right. Well, most _vampires_ prefer to enthrall. It's easier, faster, less. . . messy.”

“So you’ve never been awake.” Sherlock would typically detest stating the obvious, but this development warranted clarification.

“Nope.”

John didn't know what it was like—how it felt to bitten, to be fed upon. He was, for want of a better word, virginal. Sherlock felt a prickle under his skin, a base desire flaring to life. “Then I won't be enthralling you tonight.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock smiled, slow and salacious. “I want to give you the full experience.”

“What's in the full experience?” John’s question carried the slightest hint hesitation.

“Take off your clothes.”

John blinked. “What? Why?”

“Where do your clients normally feed?” Sherlock asked, gaze slipping down John’s neck.

John held up an arm, pulled the sleeve of his t-shirt up, and displayed his biceps. Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to the firm, round belly of the muscle and the hint of blue ribbons that ran just under the skin.

“Basilic and cephalic veins. Safe and discreet,” Sherlock said approvingly. He cupped his palm over the muscle, pressed his fingers in, and ran his thumb over the warm skin. “Oh, and yours are beautiful—nice and fat.”

“Glad you approve.” John deadpanned.

“They are quite serviceable,” Sherlock confirmed, “but that's not wear I would prefer to feed.”

John licked his lips, the first sign of nervousness he’d displayed all night. “Where would you prefer to feed?”

“Take off your clothes.”

Sherlock counted the steady heartbeats—two, three, four—as John stared at him, expression inscrutable. Sherlock found himself inexplicably worried, afraid that John would say no, or worse, take offense and leave. If he’d had a pulse, he was sure it'd be racing.

At last, John sniffed and shrugged and reached back to pull off his shirt. Next came shoes, socks, and denims. He stood before Sherlock in nothing but navy blue briefs—hands on his hips and brow raised expectantly. “Well?”

So much warm skin, flushed and glowing. Hard muscle and tight nipples. Golden hair trailing down from the divot of a navel. The steady thrum of blood called to Sherlock, and soon that slow simmer of desire under his skin turned into a blaze, a conflagration he had to fight to control.

He pushed down need to taste, to devour, and gestured to the bed. “Lie down.”

John climbed onto the mattress and spread himself out on the black duvet—one hand tucked behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. He looked totally relaxed, like he belonged there.

Sherlock didn't know how much longer he could wait to sink his teeth in.

He laid down next to John, pressed into his side, and began to trace his fingertips across John's skin. He didn't always indulge like this. In fact, most of his meals were taken with brisk detachment. But John smiled at him, talked with him. And, _Christ_ , did he smell delicious. Sherlock would be remiss if he didn't savor this meal.

“How many men have you been with?” Sherlock asked, hand skating from John’s hip, up his side, cupping against his ribs.

“I've had all types of clients.” John answered, a smooth deflection.

“I'm not talking about clients.”

And there it was, just under the skin—the quickening thump of pulse that accompanied a rush of adrenaline. But was it fear that had John’s heart racing? Or excitement?

“John?”

John’s heart hammered now, heavy beats against Sherlock’s palm. “It’s not—I've never. . . I'm not gay.”

“No.” Sherlock moved his hand, trailed his fingers up John’s blushing chest. “No. Of course not. But it isn't a binary system. There’s all manner of possibilities. Tell me, what is it about being with a man that you enjoy most?” Sherlock skimmed John's throat, jaw, lips. “The scent? The hard angles? The feel of a hard cock between your lips? Or pounding in your arse?”

John shuddered, his eyes fluttering closed. He brought the hand under his head down to encircle Sherlock’s wrist and pull him back. “Jesus.” He was breathless. Delectable. “I thought you said you weren't going to enthrall me.”

“I'm not.” Sherlock whispered, mouth against John’s ear. “This is all you. Neurochemicals and hormones. Want and desire. Need. You need this, John.”

John croaked, a moan cut off before given a chance to fully form. Sherlock smirked. He’d always enjoyed a challenge.

Sherlock raised himself up, caging John’s head between his hands and swinging a leg over his hips. He was the quintessential cat with a mouse. Mycroft would be absolutely repulsed. Sherlock couldn't be happier.

Like a whisper in the dark, Sherlock slipped down John's body—spread his knees apart and settled between them. He ran his hands up John's trembling legs, caressing pale, smooth inner thighs. Sherlock's thumb swept across the tender skin over and over, until John was flexing and straining under his touch.

He dipped down, nose running the same path his thumbs had travelled. “Here,” he said, lips brushing against the sensitive skin. “Here is where I want to feed.”

John sighed and canted his hips. He had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and a look of desperation clouding his indigo eyes as he looked down at Sherlock.

“May I?” Sherlock asked, his tongue peeking to trace along John’s thigh.

“Huh,” John exhaled, a noisy gust as if he’d been punched.

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

John fisted the duvet. He wanted this. If the thick bulge distending his briefs wasn’t evidence enough, the rough gravel of his voice gave it away as he growled, “Oh God, yes.”

Sherlock sat back, to John’s frustrated groan. He dragged his palms along strong, warm muscle—all the way to the knobs of John’s knees—and back. Kneading the muscle, feeling the blood rushing under his hands. With each circuit he pushed John's legs farther and farther apart.

“That’s right. Open up for me, John. Spread your legs like a tart. Such a slag. Tell me you want it.”

“Fuuuck,” John groaned. His cock flexed under stretched blue cotton.

The tips of Sherlock's fingers tucked under the hem of John’s pants, tickling at the crease of pelvis and leg. So hot. Blood pulsing. The craving damn near impossible to ignore. John whimpered and it rang in Sherlock’s ear like a siren song. He was drawn in, drawn down.

He ran his mouth over John’s quivering thigh, inhaled deep into his lungs. The dark scent of John’s arousal flooded him, made his lust surge and crash against the last vestiges of his restraint.

Sherlock pulled back his lips, let his fangs slide against supple flesh. He lapped once more, savoring the brine of sweat and metallic tang of blood pumping just under skin. His tongue traced the path of hidden arteries and veins, a preternatural instinct driving him to seek out the perfect place to bite.

The femoral artery called to him. It would be delicious—pumping thick, red ambrosia until it was spilling down his chin. But John would be dead inside five minutes and Sherlock couldn't have that. The moral and judicial complications of murder aside, the idea of killing John appalled him. John was warm and golden—as close to sunlight as Sherlock had experienced in centuries—and he should stay that way.

The femoral vein sat slightly too far back and a bit too deep—the position would be awkward. The great saphenous vein, though. That snaking blue ribbon was perfect.

Sherlock rotated John's leg, opening him a bit more. He ran his tongue along the hidden path of the vein and felt his thirst suffuse him. It was time.

“Ready?”

“Yes.” John huffed. “Do it.”

Compelled by something he couldn't explain, Sherlock placed a gentle kiss to the skin. Marking it with reverence.

He opened his mouth.

Set the tips of his fangs against the tender flesh.

And pierced.

“Oh! _Christ! Oh, fuck!_ ”

Surprise. Pain. Pleasure. John's voice rang out, filling the room as his blood filled Sherlock's mouth. He squirmed. They always did when they were left awake. And Sherlock reached out to pin John’s leg to the mattress.

More than simply satiating a hunger, John's blood was an elixir—imparting warmth, imbuing life. Each languorous pull carried his essence, washing through Sherlock like a long lost memory. He sucked, laved, sucked again. Hard. Harder. John cried out, a wordless keen beyond agony or ecstasy.

With a shudder, Sherlock broke off. He watched as blood oozed like treacle from the twin punctures, enraptured by the carnality of it. And when he licked his lips, the taste of copper bloomed fresh against his tongue. He felt the swell of power that always accompanied a feeding. It pumped through him, reminding him of what he was—an apex predator, immortal, and untouchable. To a human, he may as well have been a god.

Still writhing, chest heaving with each breath, John groaned, “Why’d you stop?”

Sherlock’s gaze slid over John—up his spread legs and the prominent bulge in his briefs, past the tight pink buds of his nipples, and stopping at his half-lidded eyes. Laid out like a banquet, John was irresistible. But more than just a meal to be consumed, he looked like something to be venerated. John’s body was an altar and Sherlock found himself overcome by the urge to bend down pray.

So he bowed his head and worshipped in the only way he knew how.

He lapped at John’s skin, licking away the smeared evidence of his earlier feasting. Kisses followed, soft and chaste. And when sealed his lips over the wounds once more, he suckled with care. As the minutes ticked by delicacy gave way to ardor, and soon Sherlock’s pulls grew stronger.

John’s body rolled, undulating from head to toe. His feet caught on the bedding as he pushed himself up into Sherlock’s mouth. “Yeah,” he panted, tossing his head against the pillow. “More.”

Trying to still John once more, Sherlock pressed down on his hip. He could feel the heat of John’s prick, so close to his hand, and sucked harder. The urge to touch, to curl his fingers around that hard length and stroke, nearly overwhelmed him.

Sherlock pulled off groaning, “John.” His thirst may have been satiated, but a different hunger grew. “John, I—”

“Fuck,” John interrupted, as if he hadn't even heard Sherlock speak. He arched back. “Please, Sherlock.”

Cautiously, Sherlock asked. “Please what?”

“Touch me.” John pleaded. “I know. I know it's wrong of me to ask. But I. . . I need it. Oh, Christ. _Please_.”

“Yes.” Sherlock sat up. “Yes. All right.”

His hands immediately began to roam—sliding up John’s firm stomach, over the bumps of his ribs, and down his sides—mapping out warm, sun-kissed terrain. He followed the line of hair down from John’s navel until his fingers teased at the elastic waistband of John’s briefs. Sherlock traced his thumbs up and down the hard ridge of John’s cock, equal parts teasing and admiring.

“Yes,” John sighed, eyes fluttering in relief.

With desperation in his voice and a patch of wetness darkening his briefs, John was lust incarnate. And Sherlock would deny him no longer.

Tugging down John’s pants revealed an uncut, throbbing cock—flushed and weeping at the tip. Below the thick shaft, John’s full, round bollocks looked fit to burst.

He took John’s cock in hand, pumped it slowly, and watched the foreskin slide over the head. Precome pulsed from the slit, easing the way for slicker, quicker strokes.

Sherlock felt a sympathetic twitch in his own pants, and for the first time that evening, he acknowledge his own aching need. It wasn't uncommon for the act of feeding to result in an erection, but it was rare for Sherlock to feel an urge to actually do something about it. It was a side effect, little more.

Except tonight.

Sherlock ran his other palm over the front of his trousers, needing pressure against his own rock hard prick. His mouth fell open, a weak, choked off sound escaping from his throat. He stroked and squeezed them both in time, until John was thrusting up into his fist and his own rutting had him teetering on the edge.

“Close,” John moaned. “Ngh. Faster, Sherlock. Please. . . Ah!”

“Yes, John. Come on. Come, John.”

Fist flying over the head of John’s cock, Sherlock could feel his own climax building, throbbing deep in his balls in time with each of John's soft grunts.

“ _Uhn, uhn, uhn._ ”

“John.”

“ _Uhn, uhn._ ”

“Oh, John!”

“Sherlock!”

“Yes!”

With one last cry, John came thick and hot, streaking himself with semen and panting like he'd ran a marathon. Seconds later, Sherlock threw back his head and moaned, an animal sound of pleasure, as his own cock pulsed against the cup of his palm and spilled into his pants.

“—lock? Sherlock?” John’s soft voice drifted through the post-orgasmic haze. “Sherlock, you're heavy.”

“Hmm?”

A half-hearted shove on his shoulder. “C’mon. Roll over.”

Sherlock stirred and raised himself up on his elbows. Hands rested on his waist, thighs bracketed his hips, and underneath him, John smiled fondly. Realization dawned, followed immediately by mortification. Had he really just ejaculated in his trousers and then collapsed in an ungainly heap on top of his dinner? He looked down in increasing horror.

“No, no, no,” John said, pressing his palm against Sherlock’s jaw. “It’s fine.” He smoothed his thumb over the blade of Sherlock’s cheekbone. “More than fine.”

John’s other hand came up to card through Sherlock’s curls, pushing the fringe from his forehead. It was a tenderness Sherlock hadn’t experienced since he’d last felt sunlight on his face. He let his eyes drift shut and leaned into it.

“John?” He whispered.

“Yeah?”

“What’re you doing in fifty-six days?”

John traced his fingers over the tips of Sherlock’s ear and hummed in consideration. “I think I'll be free. Did you have something in mind?”

“Dinner?”

“Wouldn't miss it.”


	5. Pet Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accident turns into an experiment that leaves John more irritated than aroused. Now Sherlock has to prove he can be a good kitty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dips toe into the world of pet play* Oh this is quite lovely!

The first time it happened was an accident.

John left to do the shopping and apparently decided to pick up milk and beans by way of Edinburgh rather than the Asda around the corner. So Sherlock had been left at home alone. He'd been left to his own devices and he was bored. Well, not bored per se. Irritated. All right, not so much irritated as amorous. He'd been alone and on just this side of gagging for it.

He considered his options: apply acid to the chicken gizzards in the freezer (in the name of science, of course); check his email (for a case or for an opportunity to issue scathing replies, both equally possible); or have a wank (immediately gratifying, but a bit self-defeating once John returned). There was nothing for it, he'd just have to convince John to get home faster.

He went to the bedroom, dropping his dressing gown, pajama bottoms, and t-shirt along the way—a suggestive trail of breadcrumbs for John to follow upon his return. From the bedside table he’d pulled out a large, flat, velvet box—the sort that might hold a bejeweled necklace. But instead of diamonds or pearls or rubies, it contained a headband. It was black satin, smooth and lustrous, and perched at the top were two soft, pointed ears.

Mindful of his curls, Sherlock put the headband on and, catching his reflection on the wardrobe mirror, arranged it just so. The pressure of the band against his skull was as enticing as it was soothing. It felt like John's fingers carding through his hair, like gentle scratches against his scalp, like a whispered _‘good kitty’_. The cascade of responses was instant. His shoulders dropped down and back, his spine went loose, and his cock plumped. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and crawled onto the bed.

Sprawled out and indolent, Sherlock held his phone out. Head tilted down and bottom lip caught between teeth, he snapped picture after picture—sending John a series of increasingly lewd poses.

_Kitties don't know how to use phones._

_Kitties aren't kitties until their owners are home. - SH_

_Well kitties are going to get in trouble if they keep sending nudes while I'm in the queue._

Sherlock smirked and brought his hand down to his prick. He curled his fingers around the flushed shaft and gave himself a firm squeeze. Focusing the camera, he made sure the picture caught the glint of precome welling at his slit.

_Naughty kitty._

_Double homicide. Islington. Bodies exsanguinated but no blood on premises._

Sherlock bolted upright, momentarily confused. John had found two dead bodies in Islington? Then he saw the name on the notification. Lestrade. That made much more sense. Kitty space did tend to make Sherlock a bit dull.

He dressed in a flurry, pulling on trousers and buttoning up his shirt one-handed as he texted Lestrade back.

_Address?_

* * *

He ducked under the police tape and made his way to Lestrade, long strides and billowing coat taking him down the alley. “Have you managed to keep your team from trampling the crime scene?”

“Contrary to your belief, we are professionals,” Lestrade answered, turning away from a young constable. The CP took one look at Sherlock and scurried off, throwing a second look over his shoulder along the way.

Sherlock slid his hands into his pockets and peered around Lestrade’s shoulder. Between the bustle of officers, he caught a glimpse of two bodies sat next to each other, backs to the brick wall and legs out straight. “What’ve you got?”

“Not much,” Lestrade said. He looked Sherlock up and down, squinted, cleared his throat. “The bodies have, uh. They've been here at least twelve hours. It’s rained since they were placed and, um, most. . .”

“Most. . .?” Sherlock prompted when it was clear Lestrade’s sentence had derailed. “Is it not enough that I solve all your cases? Do I need to complete your sentences as well?”

“What?” Lestrade blinked, then bristled. “All right. First, you hardly solve _‘all our cases’_ , you arrogant knob. And second, it's a little difficult to concentrate when you're wearing that.” Lestrade gestured with a jut of his chin, his eyes focused on Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock frowned. Slowly, with dawning horror, he reached up and skimmed his fingers over the soft satin band. He felt the tickle of fur and clenched his jaw. Doing his best not to blush, Sherlock yanked the headband off and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

“Why’re you wearing a that?” Lestrade asked, bemused.

“I was in the middle of an experiment when you texted,” Sherlock answered, relieved by the confidence in his tone.

“An experiment involving a lady’s headband?”

“Hair accessories don't ascribe to any particular gender,” Sherlock snapped, a touch offended. “And no. It holds the hair out of my eyes while I'm working.”

“Okay. But why does it have cat ears?”

Officially looking for a tactical retreat, Sherlock pushed past the DI and approached the bodies. “There’s an actual crime with actual victims, Lestrade. Let's focus on that, shall we?”

“You could just get a haircut,” Lestrade said, teasing but not unkind. And just like that, it was dropped.

* * *

Fifty-six hours later the case was solved and the perpetrator apprehended. Not a murderer, as it turned out, but a macabre artist using fresh corpses as models. He was arrested alongside his mortician girlfriend. They were no Bonnie and Clyde but it would make for an interesting, if morbid, write-up for the blog.

After the wind down—the twelve hours of sleep, two servings of panang curry, and a thorough dicking down by one, John Watson—Sherlock retreated to the catacombs of his mind palace. Processing the case was hardly a task. No. There was something else that required examination.

He repeated the incident with Lestrade. The look of bewilderment on his face, the confused accusation in his tone. Though Sherlock had buried the flash of mortification, it lingered—a constant presence just under the surface of brilliant deductions and hauteur.

Knowing that he'd been caught out should have been embarrassing in the extreme. But. It wasn't. To know that there was a voyeur, however unintentional, to this facet of his life was actually. . . a bit titillating. He'd been on display, vulnerable to anybody observant enough to notice. Perhaps it wasn't the humiliation itself, but the threat of it that Sherlock found so intriguing.

There was only one way to be certain.

* * *

John knelt over the body as Sherlock gathered the relevant details from Lestrade. “Simon Williams, fifty-two. Call came in after the neighbors started to complain about the smell. Landlord had a spare key. He opened the door, shut it again, called us.”

Sherlock unwrapped his scarf as he looked around the shabby apartment. Thatcher-era furniture, little in the way of decoration, and a kitchen that seemed more suggestive than functional. The bleakness of it all made the high end saltwater aquarium on the far wall glow like a beacon. Curious.

“No sign of forced entry,” Lestrade continued. “But that doesn't look like a natural death. We’re thinking poison.”

The strange discoloration of the corpse and dried pool of vomit staining the threadbare carpet certainly didn't suggest anything as simple as a heart attack.

“Sherlock,” John beckoned from the corpse. “Take a look at this.”

Sherlock squatted down across from John and looked intently as he lifted the man's hand. Nasty punctures—three in a line, mottled black and a sickly green—dotted the right palm. Sherlock leaned over for a closer look and—

The crystalline tickle of a bell.

John’s attention shot up, his eyes wide. Of course he’d know that sound. His gaze darted down to the open vee of Sherlock’s shirt, where the butter soft, black leather of a bespoke bell collar cinched comfortably around Sherlock's throat. John looked back up—expression scandalized.

John was, in Sherlock’s opinion, being a bit dramatic. The collar wasn't blatantly obvious. And Lord knows, this lot would be hard pressed to find a puddle in a rain storm. But still. The threat was there.

As if to up the ante, Donovan narrowed her eyes in their direction and asked, “What was that sound?”

Sherlock’s heart began to race—adrenaline pumping through his veins, blood rushing to his cock. He looked at John with a hint of challenge and traced the tip of his tongue over his top lip. The answering flare of heat in John’s eye could melt glaciers. He pursed his lips and the message to Sherlock was clear: _naughty, naughty kitty._

John stood, tried to redirect. “I think you're right. Could definitely be poison. He's got punctures on his hand, could be injection sites.”

His voice was a bit too loud and just shy of a nervous ramble. Sherlock shifted again and smirked when another clear chime prompted John to continue. “Though I'm not sure who’d want to kill him. Doesn't look like they'd have much to gain. The nicest thing in this place is the fish tank, and even that's empty.”

Sherlock halted in his examination, his focus now on John. He stood and stepped over the body, stalking toward the aquarium. “Say that again.”

John turned to watch him. “Well. Not to speak ill of the dead, but look at this place. There hardly seems to be anything worth murdering him over.”

“No.” Sherlock peered into large, fluorescent tank. “The part about the fish.”

“Oh. I didn't see any. Do you?”

“No.” Sherlock straightened and cast his gaze around the room. “Which begs the question. What was in here and where is it now?”

In the stack of milk crates that served as a bookcase, he found his answer. “A lionfish...” Oh. “Oh!”

Sherlock spun on his heel and began his search—behind the aquarium and under the table—jingling all the while. Ignoring John’s protestations, he climbed over a chair. Indelicate in the display of his arse, he bent over the back and reached down.

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “What are you doing?”

“Solving a murder!” Sherlock declared as he hopped off the chair, brandishing a very dead, very desiccated lionfish.

The tinkle of the bell rang out in the silent room.

In various states of vexation and bemusement, the Met’s finest could only stare as Sherlock, pinching the fish’s tail fin between finger and thumb, carefully handed it to Lestrade. “Your killer. Mind the spines, they're venomous. Though you likely wouldn't die from a puncture. I suspect Mr. Williams had an unfortunate anaphylactic reaction.”

“I uh. . .” Lestrade plucked the fish delicately from Sherlock’s fingers, though his eyes remained fixed on the base of Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock could practically see the questions swirling in Lestrade’s beguiled gaze. His cheeks began to heat and he smiled like a child with a secret he just couldn't keep.

“Come along, John,” he called out, tilting his head toward the door.

The chime of the bell followed them out.

* * *

“You know I enjoy what we do in the bedroom,” John said, several silent minutes into the cab ride, and a flood of relief washed over Sherlock—the tension had been growing a bit thick. “But I would prefer to keep it, ya know, in the bedroom.”

“You don't seem to mind buggering me over the kitchen table,” Sherlock countered.

John’s mouth tightened the way it did when Sherlock said something a bit not good. “Keep it in the flat then.”

Sherlock sniffed. “You also don't seem to mind going to your knees in the foyer. Or when I pull you off in the occasional supply closet.”

“That’s not—those aren't public spaces, Sherlock,” John said with a huff, and Sherlock knew he’d scored a point, even on a technicality.

“Not really private though.” He failed to completely mask his supercilious tone.

“But you do see the difference, right?” John was getting frustrated now. “At least we're behind closed doors, not playing in the middle of a bloody crime scene with half the Yard watching.”

Sherlock ducked his head, looked at John from under his lashes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

John glanced at him, harrumphed, and looked back out the window. Sherlock scooted closer, pressed himself against John's side. He dropped his head to John’s shoulder and slipped his hand over John’s thigh. He squeezed, released. Squeezed, released.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John whispered, one part prayer and one part blasphemy.

John was on the edge of giving in, resignation telegraphed in the flutter of his eyelids. He sighed and shifted, wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s back and guided him down to lay his head in John’s lap. It was a bit awkward, the back seat of the cab not really giving Sherlock adequate room to stretch out. But, like any good kitty, Sherlock was adept at making himself fit into small spaces.

John’s fingers sank into his curls, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. “You know this doesn't mean you're not still in trouble.”

Sherlock nodded, nuzzling his cheek against John’s thigh. “A double negative like that must mean I've got quite the punishment coming. Am I going get a spanking?”

“Oh. I think I can get a bit more creative than that.”

* * *

A little under an hour later Sherlock came to truly appreciate John’s unique brand of creativity. He was sprawled, face down and arse up, over John's lap, and the chime of his bell now a welcome sound—ringing out in time with the rhythmic jolt of his body—as John worked three fingers in and out of Sherlock’s hole. Patient and precise, John made sure to brush over Sherlock’s prostate with each careful stroke.

Sherlock clutched at the sheets as waves of sensation began to radiate out: a throbbing ache deep inside, a flutter in his bladder, and a tingle at the tip of his weeping cock. He wanted to reach under his stomach and pull himself off—it wouldn't take much—but John had been very explicit.

“Good kitties don't touch themselves.” He’d said as he peeled off Sherlock’s clothes and gave his half-hard prick a stroke. “Show me you can be a good kitty and I’ll pet you.”

The petting had started off innocent, with John's small, warm hand running up and down his side, his hip, his thigh. His fingers had played in the patch of hair on Sherlock’s chest, followed the line that ran down from his navel, and tickled at the trimmed thatch over his pubic bone. Not overtly sexual. Just a gentle petting.

Eventually John’s hand had found its way between Sherlock’s legs, stroking his cock and cradling his balls and exploring between his cheeks. When Sherlock had started to squirm—had started to rut against whatever he could find—John had broken out the lube and begun to pet him with much more intent.

John pressed fractionally harder, dragging his middle finger more firmly over Sherlock's prostate as he pulled back to the first knuckle, then sank back in. A little faster. A little rougher. Teasing at Sherlock until he was trembling, bucking back, and crying out, “O-oh, God! Yes!”

John withdrew his fingers and gave Sherlock's arse a sound spank. “Good kitties don't speak. They can whimper and grunt and groan, but they cannot speak.”

So Sherlock growled.

He clenched and released his arsehole in a bid to draw John's attention, and rumbled deep in his chest when those three slick fingers plunged deep. The tingling returned twice as strong and Sherlock could feel himself leaking steadily. Everything from the tip of his cock, to his hanging bollocks, to his stretched rim, radiated warmth and pleasure. It pulsed deep and spread like hundreds of fingers stroking him. It was nearly unbearable and he sobbed out cries of pure bliss as the sensation built and built and—

 _Oh, fuck_ , he thought but didn't not dare to say. _Oh Christ, oh fuck. Yes. Yes!_

Ecstasy was a conflagration—heat licking up his spine, pleasure consuming him down to the core. His heart hammered, his lungs expelled all his oxygen in one long bellow.

Sherlock went limp, but John didn't remove his fingers. He pulled back to play with his rim, giving him a moment of reprieve. But it didn't last. As soon as Sherlock caught his breath, John's fingers were sliding deep once more, rubbing a small circle against his prostate and stoking the flames again.

His next climax was less a climb and more a catapult. The echo of pleasure pulsed, strong and steady, and Sherlock’s whimper of overstimulation morphed into a groan of bone deep satisfaction. He was so wet—his cock dribbling a constant stream, making a mess of the sheets—as wave after wave and of mind-shattering bliss crashed over him. The ebb and flow as endless as the tide as one orgasm blended into the next.

John worked Sherlock’s body—fingers gentle, but strokes persistent—until Sherlock had no thought left in his head. He reared back against John’s hand, reached out and clawed at the mattress. And when he wailed into the sheets he truly sounded like a cat in heat.

* * *

After what was surely not much more than an hour, but felt to Sherlock decidedly more like a decade of cascading euphoria, John slipped his fingers out. He stroked his clean hand down Sherlock’s back and reached with the other between Sherlock’s legs. John tugged at his heavy bollocks and tutted at the low fricative—the beginning of a not very kitty-like _‘ffffffffuck’_ —as Sherlock arched back.

“Good kitties get to come,” John reminded him. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s rigid, throbbing cock and Sherlock whimpered. “Good kitties who listen and don't misbehave. Good kitties that don't try to instigate a scene in front of half of Scotland Yard, those kitties get to come. Are you a good kitty?”

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his head against the sheets. He’d be a good kitty. Right now, he'd be just about anything if it meant he finally get to fucking ejaculate.

“Good boy,” John murmured. He ran his hand, a slick, tight circle, along Sherlock’s length. “Now. Fuck my fist.”

Sherlock groaned with relief, immediately kicking his hips forward to slide his prick through that perfect aperture. He curled his fingers, digging into the mattress for purchase, and raised himself up off his knees. He wouldn't be able to hold the position for long, but then, he wouldn't need to. Desperate and panting, he rutted into John’s fist.

Above the lewd _schlick_ of Sherlock’s thrusting cock and the jubilant jingle of his bell collar, John showered Sherlock with all manner of _‘good boy’_ and _‘such a handsome kitty’_ , until it was simply too much to bear. Sherlock cried out, John’s name on the tip of his tongue, and pulsed streak after milky streak. Too exhausted to care, he collapsed into his own mess.

John sank his clean hand into Sherlock’s curls, raking through them like the soft cotton coat of a smokey Persian. His other hand he extricated from between them, and wiped off on the soiled sheets.

“That’s my good kitty,” he said, wistful and affectionate. “Why don't you take a little nap. You've earned it.”

With a sigh, Sherlock curled around John. The tinkle of his bell the last thing he heard before drifting off. He was John’s good kitty.


	6. Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a predilection for bottoming. But that isn't all it takes to be a bona fide power bottom, as John demonstrates.

“John, would you consider me a power bottom?”

“What?” I turn off the tap and set down the mug I'd been rinsing. When I turn toward the sitting room, I find Sherlock folded up in his chair, nose buried in a magazine. “What're you reading?”

“Forensic Examiner.” He turns the page with a quiet rustle.

I arch an eyebrow, doubtful, but I have to ask. “And they have an article on power bottoms?”

“No.” Sherlock answers blandly. “I'm reading about a case of necrotising fasciitis.”

“Then why'd you. . .”

I stop and lean against the worktop for a moment, trying to parse his mood. Teasing? Provoking? Curious? He’s certainly doing his best to appear disinterested, despite instigating the conversation.

“You know what? Nevermind.” I walk out of the kitchen, make my way to my chair. “But to answer your question, no.”

He looks up at that, opalescent eyes tracking my movement. “No?”

“No.” I confirm, patting my Union Jack pillow into adequate shape and collapsing into the chair. I make myself comfortable, confident this is going to be an entertaining conversation. I just wish I'd had the foresight to make popcorn. I give him a placid smile.

He puts down his magazine and swivels in his seat. Plants his feet on the floor. “Care to elaborate?”

“You're a demanding bottom, to be sure,” I say, as if offering a consolation. “Pouty and pushy. But in the end—and I mean this in this in the nicest way possible, as a man who derives great pleasure from making you come buckets—you are an absolute pillow princess.” My kingdom for a camera, his look of affront is priceless.

“I’m not—”

“However,” I interject, before he can work himself into a tizzy, “ _I_ am a power bottom.”

His voice dies in his throats and his brows furrow, the skin above his nose pleating as deep as the _‘old man’_ khakis he confiscated from my wardrobe. “You've never bottomed before.”

It's not a question, but there is clear hesitation. His eyes skim me from the silvering tips of my hair to the wool-socked feet I've got crossed at the ankle. He looks as if he's doing some serious mental gymnastics.

As much as I love to surprise him, I don't want him blowing a fuse. “Not with you,” I clarify, “but we've only been at it for a couple months, we've got plenty to try yet.”

The quality of his attention changes—from intense recalculation, to skepticism, and finally to uncertainty. “You. . . why haven't you ever said anything?”

I feel a bit bad now. Maybe I was a bit too flippant. I quirk my mouth into that soft, lopsided smile that he doesn't know that I know that he loves. “Well, it's a bit hard to discuss dynamics when you've already got your arse in the air and the duvet in your teeth.”

He rolls his eyes and harrumphs, but I can see a bit of the tension drain out of him. Overcome by an urge to make up for my lack of tact, I stand up, walk the two paces between our chairs, and slide into his lap.

He looks at me askance, but doesn't object as I comb back his fringe and lean in to press featherlight kisses along his hairline. I rest my temple against his, brush my lips over the shell of his ear. “But, since we're having the conversation now...” I whisper, thrilled to feel him shiver beneath my touch, “Yes, I do enjoy getting bummed from time to time. And when I do, I prefer to take control.”

“Ohhh,” Sherlock breathes, a soft revelation.

I can feel a growing bulge beneath my arse and I've got an answering hardness in my pants. I shift, sliding my arse back and forth against his burgeoning erection. His big hands find my hips, encircle me, and guide me into a more deliberate motion. We refine the movement—him rocking up and me grinding back down—until I'm ostensibly riding his cock.

His eyes drift down to watch the steady rocking of our bodies. He sucks his luscious bottom lip between his teeth and begins to huff short breaths from his nose.

_Oh. Oh, he likes it. He wants it._

My mouth skims over the cutting edge of his cheekbone and he tips his head back, meeting me halfway. I close my lips over his, and my tongue teases at the seam of his mouth, poised to slip inside the second he opens up. The temperature in our immediate proximity cranks from simmering to scorching as my tongue slides against his. Our breaths rasp out, lust-drenched and ragged, as his fingers clench and his hips kick up harder. I pull away before we completely lose control and look directly into his eyes—wild verdigris swamped by ink black.

“You wanna fuck me?” I pant. His answering whimper is music to my ears. I lean in close again, grind down against his cock. “You’ll need to get me loose, yeah?”

“Yes,” he groans, already broken.

I press my lips against his ear and whisper, “Finger me.”

He shudders, full bodied. “God.”

“Eat me out.”

“Oh. . . fuck.”

The next thing I know, he’s standing up—wide palms cupping my arse—and I’ve got my legs wrapped around his slender hips. He takes a step like he intends to carry me to the bedroom, but I fist my hands in his hair—tugging his head back and exposing his throat to my hungry mouth. We crash against the wall, kissing and rutting and tearing at each other’s clothes.

I’ve got half his shirt buttons undone and he’s managed to push my jumper up to my armpits and open my belt, when laughter finally overtakes us.

“Put me down,” I say between giggles.

“No,” Sherlock says, sucking determinedly on my pulse.

I drop my head back against the wall with a thud. “Christ. We’re never going to get anywhere like this.”

With a frustrated groan, Sherlock finally relents. His grip loosens and I slide down, planting my feet on the hardwood floor. I have to take a moment to steady myself. My heart is hammering and I feel light headed—all the blood in my body currently trapped in my throbbing prick.

“Bed,” I manage to say, and turn toward the hall.

We leave a trail of clothes in our wake, crossing the threshold to the bedroom just as our pants hit the floor. He crowds me, but I don’t go down easy. I take his cock in a firm grip and stroke him roughly, until the back of my knees hit the mattress and I topple over.

He climbs on top of me, slotting our mouths together and slipping a thigh between mine. I arch up against the hard plane of his chest, roll my hips. He lifts himself up on his elbows, cages me in.

I’m instantly reminded of how much larger he is than me. It’s easy to forget—when he’s titling his hips up into the air and begging for my cock; when I’m holding him by the waist and pounding into him, listening to him breathlessly keen my name. But with him hovering above me—broad shoulders and strong chest and darkly gleaming eyes—it’s suddenly, blindingly obvious.

He presses his hips down and the silky hot slide of his cock against mine is electrifying. I groan, a deep and needy sound, and wrap my arms around him. God it feels so good to be under him like this, while he ruts against me, and pants into my ear. He’s always enthusiastic about sex, but never so aggressive. I could get used to this.

“Gonna fuck you,” he grunts, breath ghosting over my skin, making me shiver.

He shifts down, mouthing just under my jaw. His teeth scrape along my throat and I gasp, turn my head, whisper, “God yes.”

He’s leaking now. I can feel hot precome drizzling down the crease where groin meets thigh. My own prick flexes and for a split second the crests of our cocks catch against one another, rubbing like slick velvet.

Suddenly he pulls away, bows back until he’s a beautiful curve from the point of his chin, down his elegant throat, to his flushed chest and taut stomach. He thrusts once—twice—then reaches down to grab the base of his cock. I look down to see his prick is a glistening scarlet, throbbing in his grip. There’s a single milky thread slowly unspooling from the slit and I watch as it stretches down between our bodies, until it snaps and lands in a thick drop on my cock.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” he groans, casting his graveled voice up to the ceiling. “That was close.”

I stare up at Sherlock in awe. He’s like a god towering above me—carved marble crowned with a riotous halo of dark curls. Heat radiates from him, pulsing waves of power and virility. My heart thuds in my chest, pumping liquid arousal through my veins.

He looks back down to me, eyes hot and hungry—an all-consuming wildfire—and I scramble to flip over. No need for words, I know exactly what he wants. I end up on on my knees, arse high in the air and face buried in the mattress. Presented. I feel cool air on my exposed arsehole, and the heavy weight of my cock and bollocks hanging between my legs. I love this. Love offering myself up.

His warm hands slide up my sides, coming to rest on my hips. There’s the slightest tug at my arse cheeks as he shifts his weight. I wink my tight hole, eager for attention.

I hear him hum in appreciation—feel the rumble of it under my skin. The smear of his mouth over the curve of my arse is only warning I get before the flat of his tongue lapping against my hole. Pure fucking bliss. I dig my fingers into the sheets and cant my hips even higher.

He spears into me, hot and wet—stretching my rim around the point of his tongue and curling deep. And, _God_. That’s perfect. Brilliant.

But, oh. _Oh!_

His mouth presses and slides around my hole—a deep, luxurious kiss. Humid breath and tender lips. Gentle suckling at my rim. Absolutely filthy.

I reach back, feel his hand spreading my cheeks wide, and back farther to weave my fingers into his silky curls. Tug. “Sherlock. . .” I moan, breathless with the relentless roll of his tongue just inside my body. “Yes, Sherlock. Eat me out. _Fuck_. Eat my arse.”

He groans, a gluttonous sound of agreement, and buries his face deeper—shakes his head from side to side. The wonderfully sloppy slide of his tongue in and out of my hole and around my rim is unbelievable. Unrestrained. Unrelenting.

By the time he pulls back for breath I’m babbling into the sheets, cursing and begging. Without his face tucked between my cheeks, I can feel cool air against my saliva-drenched skin.

Over my ragged, panting breaths I hear a murmured, “Oh, that’s lovely.”

Then a wet pop.

I gasp as hot spit lands squarely on my anus. That was. . . unexpected. But in no way unappreciated.

“Fuck, yes,” I whimper into the blanket. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this deliciously slutty.

The soft pad of his thumb rubs over my hole, spreading saliva. He leans in and spits again, a slow dribble that pools, then spills over to run in a warm rivulet down my crack.

“There you go,” Sherlock says, a low rumble that makes the hairs at my nape stand on end. _Danger!_ Some part of my mind is shouting—a primitive response to the feral quality of Sherlock’s voice.

But I’ve never shied away from danger.

I reach back with both hands, curl my fingers around my arse cheeks and pull them wide. “C’mon,” I growl, taunting.

The sudden breach—two slender fingers pressing in, stretching—makes me cry out in surprise. He pauses, gives me just a second to adjust, then slides out. And, _oh_. That is sweet. A hot bloom of pleasure that skirts at the edge of too much.

He plunges in again, drilling deep, twisting.

I have a fleeting thought of dexterity. Of clever fingers running up and down a fingerboard, coaxing beautiful music from the strings of a violin. Those same fingers are coaxing quite a different sound from me now.

He's feathering a touch over my prostate. There and gone. I don't know if it's on purpose or if he's simply mapping me out, but I don't have they patience to wait. I swivel my hips, putting the tips of his fingers right where I want them, and begin to rock.

“There. There,” I pant. As if the way I’m moaning and dripping precome all over the duvet isn’t obvious enough. “Christ, that’s perfect.”

He picks up the rhythm easily, stroking in counter to my desperate rolling and rocking. And it’s wonderful. It sends pulses of pleasure through my core. The stretch has me feeling weightless and the pressure against my prostate is like an imploding star—heavy, white hot, and consuming.

I could come like this. With him draped over my back and a quick fist running over my cock. God it would be amazing.

But that’s not the plan.

The plan is to ride Sherlock like a fucking rodeo star. And, by God. That’s what I’m going to do.

“Sherlock.” It’s barely a breath. I lift myself up on my elbows and turn to look over my shoulder. “Sherlock, wait.”

He stops, two fingers plugging me deep. “All right?”

“Yes. God. More than all right. Sherlock, I need to fuck you.” I mean it. Down to the marrow of my bones. I _need_ to fuck him.

There must be something in my tone that conveys my sheer desperation, because he doesn't hesitant to withdraw his fingers and move around the mattress. He settles back and looks up at me with a kind of curious expectancy.

I have to take a moment to gather my wits—his talented fingers shattered them into roughly a million pieces and sent them flying to the four corners of the universe. But once I'm more or less in control, I sit up and throw a leg over his. His hands skim up the tops of my thighs, ruffling the fair hair, and sending shivery sparks of excitement through me. I flash him a smile, bright and cheeky, and lean over to the bedside table.

I don't just squeeze a dollop of lube into my fingers and call it good. No. I up-end the bottle over my palm until I've created a shimmering pool of slick, and then I drizzle an extra line down the length of Sherlock’s straining erection. Because—what Sherlock is about to learn—is that I like a sopping wet ride. I want to slide down a well greased pole. And I want to hear that filthy squelch every time I bottom out.

I smear the lube up and down his thick, blushing cock until the glide of my hand is near frictionless, then I spread the remaining slickness over my hole. I tuck the tips of three fingers just inside the rim and tug, testing. I can't help the shudder that rolls through me at the delicious stretch. _Jesus._ This is going to be so good.

My eyes trace up his flushed chest, over his gilt collarbones and the warm shadow at the base of this throat. Up to the delicious pink pout if his lips, parted on the eager tide of his breaths. The journey ends on his eyes—smoldering mercury slivers. He’s hungry, just as desperate as I am.

With one hand placed on his chest for balance, I lift myself up to hover over his cock. He hisses when I reach down, giving him a rough stroke and gripping him hard by the base. I hold him steady, positioned to impale.

The first touch—the press like a wet kiss against my pucker—makes me gasp. It's foreign and familiar all at once. It drives me wild. I want to slam down, ride him hard and fast.

But I’m going to take my time, savor it.

I swivel my hips—feel the tip slip around my rim, tease at my hole. Again and again, pressing down a bit harder with each pass, letting the head slip a little deeper, a little deeper. Finally, I settle my weight—letting gravity and my own grasping, hungry hole take over.

My eyes flutter closed as the stretch changes from a fleeting suggestion to a bold intrusion. That sweetly tapered crown inches deeper, catches on my rim for a wonderfully agonizing second, then pops in. I can feel the way my body wraps around him. Welcoming.

I ease my way down, rocking forward and back. The heat makes me sigh, the pressure gives that breath the tiniest bit of voice—a mewl of contentment caught in the back of my throat.

Settling down on his lap is like claiming a throne. A fresh drizzle of precome slides from my prick at the thought. This is my rightful place. He is my dominion.

I lean forward and splay both hands over his chest. There’s something wonderfully proprietary about placing my palms on his body—right over the steady thump of his heart—and having him bear my weight. This is me staking my claim.

He wraps his fingers around my wrists and holds me in place, an anchor as I slowly raise myself up. I look him in the eyes—watch him watch me—as that thick, satin-over-steel shaft slides out. And, _Christ_ , that’s fantastic. It takes everything I have to not just throw my head back and howl, but I want to see the heat, the conflagration, that flares up in his eyes as I begin to ride him.

Awe-struck. It’s the only way to describe him. His eyes are wide—pupils like an ink spill—and the rosy stain on his cheeks is pure arousal. His mouth gapes around shallow pants, and the tweak of his brow telegraphs a pleasure that flirts with the boundary of ‘too much’.

He’s beautiful.

My thighs strain and my hips roll as I move in a glacial circuit. Up and down. Nice and slow. Savoring the connection.

Sherlock. Inside me.

I lower myself down, elbows on either side of his head, and kiss him. Long and languorous, like the liquid undulation of my body. The glide of our tongues never gets old, but that hungry nip to my bottom lip is new. He licks into my mouth and I suck on his tongue, tasting something dark and sweet—a fresh bloom of lust.

His hands come up to my hips, his palms smoothing over my arse as I rock him in and out of my body. He starts to move, catching my rhythm and spiking up in time. The tempo quickly gets away from us. Faster and faster still, until our kisses turn into the blur of mouths and exchange of panting breaths.

I rear back, raising myself up and holding myself there, letting him do a bit of the work. I can’t hold back my moans. Little _uhn, uhn, uhns_ as the head of his cock pommels my prostate, sends shivery pulses of pleasure through my body.

“Jesus,” I drawl as his hips churn under me, cock carving up and into my body. “Sherlock. . . fuck. That’s lovely.”

Heat and pressure build, until I’m ready to explode, a brimming supernova of pleasure. I slam back down, burying him deep and clawing my way from the precipice. Quite literally, it turns out, as I look down to see the pink furrows I’ve left on Sherlock’s chest. He doesn’t seem to have noticed—he’s got his hands wrapped tight around my hips, pulling me hard onto his cock.

He plants his feet, giving himself more leverage, and the angle shifts his cock inside me. Now each thrusts drags the length of his cock over my prostate—inch after inch of blinding ecstasy. I’d almost say it’s too much, if that weren’t patently ridiculous. Instead, I rock forward and back in time, extracting every last drop of sensation from his fervent thrusts.

_More_. Jesus, I want more. Need it. _Fuck_. I try to give these fractured thoughts voice, but sound that comes out of my mouth instead is primal. It starts deep in my gut, clenches in my chest, and punches out in a deep groan. I throw my head back and clench my eyes shut. The only coherent sound I can manage is a grunted out, “Fuck. . .!”

I grab his hands and pull them up, slide his palms over my shuddering core, and bring them to rest on my chest. I guide his fingers to pinch at my nipples.

He takes the hint.

“Oh!” A gust of breath carries my voice as he plucks at the hard buds of my nipples. “Oh fuck, yes.”

He twists and tugs and I slam down, taking his cock down to the root. I lift up, keening at the magnificent slide, then down again, impaling myself. Over and over, recklessly hard and fast.

Pressure and pleasure are building, radiating, warning me in lapping waves that I don’t have long. “Getting close,” I growl.

Sherlock’s right hand begins to drift lower, fingertips blazing a trail down my stomach—following the line of honey-brown hair from just above my navel down to my leaking erection. I settle into the cup of his groin and sigh with relief as he wraps his hand loosely around my cock. Rocking my hips, I curse at the duel sensation of much needed friction and the stirring of his cock deep inside me. The lax channel of his fist isn’t enough to get me off, but it drives me wild all the same.

I lean back, plant my hands on Sherlock’s thighs for balance, and thrust into his hand. The angle has his cockhead glancing against my prostate with every undulation and a dense pit of pleasure has formed behind my balls. The stimulation that flares up with each pass of his hand along my cock is suddenly too much—too sharp, too bright. I sob for him to let go and he does, moving both his hands to my hips, pushing and pulling me. He kicking his hips up again, following along with the rhythm I’ve set.

“Oh, fuck. Oh! Fuck!”

I close my eyes tight, see starbursts bloom and fade. I rock harder, faster. Desperate.

“Christ. . . yes! Sherlock! Yes!”

His fingers press into my skin, bruisingly tight, and he pulls me down at the same time he shoves up. So deep. _Fuck!_

There’s a coil of pleasure wrapping tight around the root of my cock, pulsing liquid heat and pleasure through my core. Filling me. Filling me.

So full.

I think of supernovas and atomic bombs. Dangerous. Devastating. Imploding. Exploding.

“There!” I cry out. “Ohhhh. . . Fuck! Right there! I’m. . . I’m. . .”

I’m ecstatic, is what I am. Coming in thick, powerful arcs. Bliss washes over me—a rushing tidal wave at first, then in slow, syrupy laps. My limbs are tingling, my breath shudders, my throat is dry from shouting.

Underneath me, Sherlock is rolling his hips lazily. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are painted a lovely shade of pink, and if those weren’t good enough clues, the subtle pulsing of his cock tells me all I need to know.

As soon as he begins to soften, I collapse onto my side. My muscles are jelly and my heart is still racing. I’m spent in every possible way.

He rolls over, presses against me. We’re both hot, skin tacky with the remnants of exuberant sex. I don’t care. He kisses the sweat from my hairline and I pull him down to taste the salt on his lips.

After a long minute, he pulls back and scoots down just enough to lay his ear over the still-hammering tattoo of my heart. I lift my hand to his head, thread my fingers through his damp curls.

“And that,” I say with a breathy sigh, “is what it means to be a power bottom.”


	7. Clothing Kink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter underwent a few different iterations in my head, but I think it's safe to say that this is just about the best idea I could have had. Special shout out to everyone in The Chat (tm) that helped shape this into the grossly inappropriate, deliciously sexy fic that it is!

“I feel like a fucking reprobate,” John says as he slips into a seat at the high top table tucked into the far corner of the cafe. His voice is quiet, speaking to me via the in-line microphone on his ear buds.

“So dramatic, John,” I tease, holding the line to my own matching mic close to my mouth.

I'm sitting at my own, low table, about fifteen feet away. From this seat I've an unobstructed view of John—shifting in his chair as his eyes dart around the bustling cafe. I can't help but feel a bit like a child playing Spy, except I'm 21 years old and this little game is anything but child's play.

“You know,” John grumbles, “I was an upstanding citizen before I met you.”

“That may be the most banal phrase ever to grace that pretty mouth.”

He tries to glower at me, but the blush across his cheeks rather ruins the effect. I smile back, a flirtatious quirk of my lips, and lift my double soy latte in recognition of his displeasure.

“Berk,” John huffs, then scoots down in his seat.

I think he may be pouting, that he may be about to call this whole thing off, when he spreads his legs wide. And, _oh_. That is quite a view!

Picking my phone up from off the table, I open the camera and zoom in until the table legs are just framing John’s bare knees. Silver gym shorts stretch above the curve of his quads, and gape open under his hamstrings, giving just a hint of creamy inner thigh.

“That’s perfect.”

I don't realize I've said it out loud until I hear a husky, “Sherlock. . .”

I look up from my phone—and the tantalizing image of John’s jersey-clad crotch—to find him watching me. He looks downright cherubic with his tousled blond hair, glowing pink cheeks, and wide blue eyes. It makes the next words I say sound even filthier.

“I'm going to start recording.”

His adam's apple bobs with the force of a nervous swallow, but he doesn't look away. With a single nod of his head, I tap _record_.

I'm suddenly, acutely aware of the people all around us. The students ordering triples and quads, desperate to stay awake through the afternoon slump; the woman two tables over, scrolling through her phone; the couple behind me on their first date. Any of them could turn their heads and see John, see what I’m about to make him do.

I bring the mic close, lick my lips, and rumble a command, “Put your hand in your lap.”

John stares at me for a moment, as if considering whether or not he wants to go through with this, then his left hand slides off the table. He places it on the top of his thigh, takes a breath, and drifts it until his palm is settled in the cradle of his lap.

I can hear the blast of the steamer as John’s fingers twitch against flimsy fabric of his shorts, the tittering of laughter as he shifts and spreads his legs further apart.

“Are you hard?”

John squeezes his hand, runs it along the inseam. “A little.”

“Have you ever gone commando before?”

John shrugs. “A few times. But that was in proper trousers.”

“How did it feel walking here in those shorts?” My gaze tracks from John's hand, to his eyes, and back. “With your cock and bollocks swinging free?”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John blushes more, cheeks staining an attractive shade of crimson. “Embarrassing. I felt like everyone could see everything.”

I tilt my head from one side to the other, considering. “You are a few standard deviations above the average, even flaccid. Could you imagine walking around hard? The way those shorts would mold around you? It'd look like you were smuggling a billie club.”

“Oh, God.” John slouches down in his seat, blush creeping up to his hairline now.

“Oh, yes,” I murmur, that amber dark purr that I know sends John's pulse tripping. ”That would be quite a sight.”

He bites his lip, but doesn't quite manage to hide a smug little smile. Oh. . . This is going to be delicious, making him squirm.

He’s spread his legs a little more, his fingers slowly curling and relaxing around the barely visible contour of his cock. The satiny material of his shorts catches the light just so, highlighting the ridge of his growing erection.

“Why don't you give yourself a few strokes?” I suggest, zooming in the video a bit. “Get your prick nice and fat.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, instead running his hand slowly over the shaft. A more defined bulge is starting to form behind the slick, silver fabric and he lengthens his strokes.

“Like this?” His voice is a deeper husk now.

“Mmmm. Yeah. Just like that. God, I love your thick cock—” A woman walks behind me, her shopping bag bumping up against the back of my chair. I hold my breath and wait for her to pass. One more heartbeat, then I continue. “Love it when you shove it down my throat 'til I can't breath. Love it when you're thrusting it deep in my arse.”

“Jesus. . .” John swallows hard, his chest heaving under his tight T-shirt.

He’s fully hard now—a fucking lead pipe running down his thigh—and not for the first time, do I consider just how lucky I am.

He rubs his thumb and index finger just behind the head and I can see the outline of the flaring crest perfectly. Absolutely delectable. I wish is could slide under his table and swallow him down. But that may be just a tad too conspicuous.

“That's lovely, John,” I say instead. “Why don’t you give us a wag.”

He huffs a laugh and I look up to see him shaking his head, fond amusement gleaming in his eyes. But he doesn’t protest. He slips his hand back and grips the base of his cock firmly. A little shake of his wrist and the length of his erection moves up and down. The distended fabric shifts, the sheen and shadow undulating around the contour of his prick.

My own trousers are suddenly about two sizes too small.

Growing bold, he runs his hand from root to tip, squeezes and pulls back. His fingers are wrapped, as much as possible, around the girth and he strokes again and again. Ostensibly wanking. Under the table. Of a crowded cafe.

I look up from my phone—where all of this is being recorded for posterity in pristine, sixteen megapixel digital quality—to see that he looks perfectly composed. His expression is bland as he scrolls through something on his phone. He catches my eye and smiles, cocksure. In every sense.

I can’t have that.

“Take your right hand and squeeze your bollocks.”

He stops stroking, his attention now focused on me. There’s a crease above his nose that says _‘Are you serious?’_ , and I return the look with a challenging arch of my eyebrow. _‘Try me’_.

“Right hand. Play with your balls. Keep stroking with the left.”

He darts a quick look around the cafe, as if anything has changed in the last few minutes. It’s still the same milling students and preoccupied office workers—people far too focused on getting their caffeine fix to notice the man in the corner slip his hand under the table. John trails his fingers along the inseam of his shorts, scoots down in his chair, and cups his palm at the apex of his legs.

I can hear him sigh through the microphone. It’s as much a sound of relief as it is trepidation. He squeezes. Strokes. Sighs again. My mouth goes dry.

“Ro—” I croak.

His brow lifts, his expression surprised at first, then patiently expectant. His hands continue to move.

Clearing my throat, I try again. “Roll them. Yes. Oh, that’s perfect, John. Go ahead and give them a bit of a tug.”

John scoops his fingers under what are surely come-heavy bollocks, and closes his hand. He pulls, releases, pulls again. His left hand has moved to the head, kneading. I zoom in, and _yes_ —there’s a faint patch of wetness darkening the fabric.

“You’re leaking,” I murmur, too enraptured by the sight to chastise myself for staying the obvious.

“Nghuh-huh.” John nods.

He’s lost all that carefully crafted composure. With eyes half-lidded and rosy pink lips parted. He looks downright indecent.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath. Because my own cock is now rock hard and angled awkwardly down the leg of my trousers. I reach down and tug at the crotch of my jeans, lift my hips, and shimmy. I reposition my erection into the bit of space I’ve managed and it takes a monumental effort not to let my hand linger.

“Show me your cock, John.” The words come out in a rush, caught between panted breaths. “I want to see it.”

His hands still and eyes open. He’s lust-drunk as he refocuses on me. “How?”

Not, _‘No’_. Not, _‘Are you out of your mind, Sherlock?’_. But, _‘How?’_

“Pull up the leg of your shorts,” I whisper, urgent. Desperate even to my own ears.

John’s fingers find the hem of his shorts and, slowly, he tugs them up. It’s an unbearable tease as more and more of that strong thigh is revealed. Pale skin, rarely touched by the sun. Hair so fine and fair that it can’t be seen from this distance.

The sounds of the cafe fade away—no more barking orders or screeching chairs, no more chatter or clatter. Everything vanishes except John.

Higher and higher, the fabric creeps. And there. The first glimpse of a blush. Glossy scarlet at the head, then fading to a petal-pink along the shaft. He’s well over halfway out, throbbing in the open air.

John runs the pads of his fingers over the exposed length, pinches at the head, and swipes his finger and thumb across the slit. With the camera zoomed in, I can see the clear strand of precome stretch and snap as he tests the tensile strength.

“Taste it.” I can hardly recognize my own voice, it’s so rough—a tumble of sun-baked stone.

He looks straight at me—into me—and brings his fingers up, licks delicately at the tips. I can hear the sibilant static of his hum, then he’s reaching back under the table. Stroking finger and thumb over the crown, he squeezes out a fresh drizzle. He coats his first two fingers this time and slips them past his lips. Sucking up to the fist knuckle.

He moans, full throated and unrestrained.

My cock surges in my pants.

Through a thick veil of arousal, a thought makes it way to me: _We need to get out of here_. I don’t have the cognitive capacity to determine if this thought is pragmatic (we can’t actually orgasm in the middle of a cafe) or cautious (we are quickly losing control), but either way it seems prudent.

“John.”

“Hmm?” He still looking at me. Still suckling on his fingertips.

“I want you to get up and head towards the bathroom.”

John’s pulls his fingers from his mouth, a lazy smile curling his lips. “You gonna fuck me in the bathroom?”

“Don’t be absurd,” I say, feigning annoyance. I add a dramatic eye roll for verisimilitude. “You’re going to head towards the bathroom, then take the staff door out to the back alley. I’m going to suck you dry behind a skip.”

“Fuck,” he says, more alert now. “All right. Just give me a moment to. . . erm, calm down.”

He carefully pulls his shorts back down, sits back in his chair. He even makes a show of taking a sip of his coffee. Gone cold now, I’m sure.

“No, no,” I chide. “Right now.”

He blinks at me. “But I’m—Sherlock. I can’t.”

“You can and you will, provided you want to me to suck you off. You do want that, don’t you, John? To pump a hot load straight down my throat?”

He drops his head back and curses at the ceiling. “Christ.”

He looks around the cafe again, cranes his neck to get a line of sight on the short hallway that leads to the bathroom. I’m sure he’s trying to plot a path, but there’s no clear way out.

“Quickly,” I say, sharp and commanding.

He slips off his seat and does his best to adjust his shorts, but there’s no way he can hide the plump line of his cock distending the fabric. His gait is slower than normal, his legs slightly wider to accommodate his thickness. Each step jostles him, causes the bulge in his shorts to bounce and sway. It’s absolutely mouthwatering.

I let him pass me, give him a few seconds head start before I stand to follow. I don’t turn off my phone, rather I focus the camera on the taut jiggle of his arse as he walks. I scan the cafe, looking for any shocked expressions, but the patrons all seem absorbed in their own tasks.

Just as we turn the corner toward the back exit, I notice a woman's eyes go wide. She does a double take as we pass and then turns to whisper excitedly to her friend. As we round the corner I cast a glance over my shoulder, and sure enough they’re peering over, trying to catch one more look. I give them a wink instead.

John hesitates at the exit, looking over his shoulder to make sure nobody is watching, then leans against the push bar. We spill out onto the pavement behind the cafe and I look up and down the alley for an adequate spot to get on my knees. There’s an alcove a few yards away and I push him towards it.

He’s breathless as his back hits the brick wall, his hand already slipping into his shorts. He tilts his head back, a grimace of need pulling at his mouth. “Fuck, Sherlock. I need to come.”

I press into him, reach down and cup him through his shorts. He groans extravagantly and pulls his hand back just enough to catch the waistband. I help him tug his shorts down his hips, let the stretch of elastic press his cock down and down and down, until it springs up, throbbing crimson and wet at the tip.

“Oh!” I moan, ravenous. I pass him the phone as I drop down.

“What am I doing with this?” He asks, as if it isn’t glaringly obvious.

I look up at him, my hands already bracketing his hips, my lips barely more than an inch from his jutting prick. I curl my tongue out and lick up a pearly drop of precome. “Keep recording.”

“Oh, Christ.” His cock jerks, eager for more. “Christ. Okay.”

He grips my phone firmly in one hand and brushes the curls back from my forehead with the other. His hips are trembling, little quakes that bump his cock against my tongue as I flick and circle at the very tip.

“Sherlock. . .” he whines. It’s an exquisite sound, pure and fine and unwittingly revealing—like dust on a mantle. It tells me everything I want to know.

Like how he wants to feel the slide of my lips down his shaft—wants to see them stretched around him. And how he’s desperate to twist my hair in his fingers and fuck my face. And that he’d love to paint my cheeks and chin with his come, but what’s left of his sense of public decency won’t allow it.

I want all of those things too— _Christ, do I_. And I want it all recorded. I want to play it back again and again and remember the time we fucking lost ourselves in a filthy alley behind our second favorite cafe.

So I slip the head of his cock between my lips and slide down. I take my time, slowly bobbing, letting the tight seal of my lips ride back and forth over the flaring crown. Then a little more and a little more. His fingers are loosely tunneled into my curls, not demanding even as they twitch and tug. I look up at him, at the camera, with half his cock down my throat, and I plead—a plaintiff keen high in my chest.

That’s all it takes.

His hand curls around my skull, his fingers pressing me forward. His cock glides over my tongue, along my soft palate—filling my mouth. I taste tang and brine and musk, the distinct flavor of his arousal. I keep going until I can feel the tickle of golden curls against the tip of my nose. He gasps when I swallow around his thickness, the fingers in my hair spasming. I twist my head, this way and that, eyes never leaving the tiny glinting aperture.

“Oh, fuck!” He cries out, surprise lifting his brow as if he hadn’t meant to let those words slip.

He guides me up and down the length of his cock, gently demanding, and I pull pleasure from him—draw out the bitter nectar of his bliss—with every tongue-curling suck. His hips twitch, his breath rasps out. He’s close.

I slip my hand down between my legs, palm at the ridge of my aching cock. It’s almost too much—the friction sending shivers of pleasure up my spine as the weight of John’s prick on my tongue reminds me of why I’m on my knees. Through the haze of it all, I realize I’m only a few strokes away from coming in my pants. And that’s fine. More than fine. Oddly poetic, given how this all started.

John’s moving rougher now, fucking into my mouth with short jerks. I don’t fight it as his blunt nails bite into my scalp. Instead, I rut into my hand and moan around the thickness between my lips.

Saliva trickles down my chin as John grunts, short and staccato, “Yeah. . . Fuck. Sher. . . Gonna. Gonna—ahhh. . .”

Pleasure surges through me and I moan, deep and resonate, as I come—throbbing inside my trousers, spilling into my pants. My body shudders through the aftershocks and I can do little more than hold my aching jaw open for John's pumping cock.

He fucks into my mouth once, twice, then buries himself deep into my throat as he unloads. His hips roll in time with each hot pulse and I swallow and swallow.

Eventually his fingers slacken, card through my hair in apology and praise. I let his softening prick slip from my lips, trailing a string of saliva as it drops. Looking up at him, I make a show of licking my lips—cleaning every warm smear of spit and come.

John smiles down at me—sated, soft, and radiant. He taps the phone, hands it back to me. I take it, start to slip it into my front pocket, then think better of it and slide it into the back.

“I still think you’re a menace,” John says as he tucks himself back into his gym shorts.

I stand up, dust off my filthy knees. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

He grins at me as he gives his spent cock one final adjustment. “No I wouldn’t.”

I stretch out my hand, gesturing to the alley and the busy street beyond. “Shall we?”

“All right. But you’re paying for a cab back. I’ve had just about all the indecent exposure I can handle for the day.”

“Fine,” I agree. It honestly isn’t much of a hardship, considering how my pants are sticking to my groin right now. “There’s always tomorrow.”

He chuckles in a way that suggests he thinks I’m joking. He stops when I don’t join him. “Wait. What are you thinking about?”

I give him a wink and head off towards the road. He sputters behind me, calls me a lunatic, and swears in no uncertain terms that he will not be doing anything like this again.

We’ll see about that.


End file.
